The meter of this poem
will be like ticks of a clock —
no, I mean, ticks of clocks.
 
On contemplation of my navel
I see only what appears to be
a tiny  muffin.
 
I believe that clapping
takes two hands,
that physic is superior to psychic.
 
I find symbols, creeds and pledges
mere salutes to non-existent continuity;
 
that lighting one small candle
doesn’t light a village;
 
that charity promotes
sanctimony and governmental savings;
 
that when I seem near death
but see a light at tunnel’s end,
I won’t be dead yet.
 
And  Doubting Thomas
had a right.

(1999)

free, philosophical

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