Alone

This is as philosophical As keeping the count, Binoculars trained For a whale That will never spout, This is not the season, Hamlet knew. The Pilgrim knew, As did the Wife of Bath, This is discovery, A poem on the Underground By Sylvia Plath. This is the season of butchery, Bullfights without rules, Lions shot with a precision rifle, Selective breeding On Noah’s ark. This is as dark as it gets In a daylight forest, As stark As one isolated note From an aria, As lonesome as one straggler goose, Squawking, ‘take me along’.