The entertianment world must thrive
without me for a while — my television's blank.
Oh, people talk, and music plays — which is how
i know it's not the news — so often
basso with the minor chords — walkup for
Old Scratch — a symphony of cataclysm,
explosions, shouts and wails — sometimes
even conversation with string orchestra,
interspersed with the acronyms
of peristaltic afflictions, before
the gunfire resumes — but still no picture.
That's fine. I'll eat my eggs and ramps
on the porch in front of the field and woods and sky,
watching the leaves open to the melodies
of returning birds, singing of the tropics,
and all of us in tune again with the close-at-hand,
this sweet old earth, and how she rolls.
