All these odes are for some later time when work is done

the laurel tilted rakishly on our brow

and we find ourselves

casting about for subjects to twine in rhyme

in the despair of those who have no sky

to shake their fists at

and must settle for lost-love, tragic-love, death-of-love,

passionate poems to rouse

when passion can no longer rouse itself

and every wine tastes of water,

some later, dulcet, ennuied time

when waiting work does not shame our pretty words as waste.

I am not sad.

I have no tears to weep,

no time for tender meditation on the tragedy of me.

I am afraid and furious at the fact.

I'm sick of kisses in dark doorways

pulling down the shades

watching every word I say

each inflection, gesture, step I take.

Sick of feeling a stranger in my own land

wondering what made that noise outside the door

who that was who rang and then hung up

who this is across from me

which of those I know is the enemy and when they'll strike,

sythe down all my world

and with me those I love.

To live in fear makes anger

and outrage in my deepest heart

and fight hardens in my fists.

There is no time for tears!

SAUL K.

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