Poem: Much Ado
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.