Future Policy

John Grey

In the morning you mull over last night's

raw pulse and why you quarrel more

now that the fall wind has stripped the trees

and winter's just a bout of cabin fever away.

 

Winter. Damn that word.

Why give a name to the nothingness.

Indulge it with hot coffee.

The first crackle of wood in a fireplace.

Warm is today's meal.

Grab your share.

Whistle. Hear your tune

smother old echo, cauterize

the trembling halls.

 

Sit back with a newspaper

loaded up with other people's problems.

In your calm, there remains,

the faith of a marble statue,

that life is a game of the enduring,

and only an idiot sums up their attitudes

in the Ming of a china dish.

The saturnine sky of the orange sun proves it.

There is room on the planet for calm,

for words without edges.

Pick up the pieces if you will

but put them together as insight.

 

The cost of a plate is nothing.

Even behind cabinet glass,

porcelain cries out to be replaced

More work for skilled craftsmen

in the south of China.

Economy of scale, economy of rage.