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Death Watch
A poem
Does a man need to be thought of,
to be considered, taken seriously?
Maybe a master of his field,
as he stands in a field
beneath the rolling clouds
and shakes his fist
at the multitudes of faces
lost among the gloaming.
See me, he screams, I’m here.
I’m standing and unswept
by winds that carve the world.
See me, look upon my creations,
and acknowledge
how time dwindles a life
even as it grants significance
to the accumulation of a history.
Love is not the cure-all
you might believe.
For some it is bitter poison
dripped into the wellspring
of an otherwise logical mind,
and every decision made
gets tainted with its trappings,
believing misery to be happiness.
There is beauty inherent in specificity.
The powdery scent of an infant,
rainwater rippling beneath a caution light,
sound of electric crackle…
