Poem: Much Ado

Should the gratuity be fifteen or twenty per cent? And does the fixation on such matters say something

Deeply troubling

About the man who would care to cogitate

The difference in dollars, paper money, symbolic trinkets — when, in a hospital and upon

A battlefield, and in a classroom filled with yearning minds, and somewhere

In a mud hut

A mother calculates how much milk she can ration to her suckling brood.

The mad dashing to and fro for no discernible reason — other than a compulsion to be what one ought to be — feels like doing something.

Disguising the stark canvas of nothing.

And only the clock, interminable and certain, moves onward, toward a conclusion that

We’ll never see.

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