Glengarry, Glenross
No matter how despicable the mire
in which we find ourselves, there’s always hope.
Just raise your eyes – a sunny upper slope
is beckoning. We hanker. We aspire.
Caruso, Bluto, Joe Dimaggio –
then, afternoons were easy. Men were men.
Those certainties will never come again.
We’re exiled from the dear, dead long ago.
Forever prancing forward, harking back,
we don’t suppose This Moment will be missed.
But life is Monitor or Merrimack:
trajectories seem smooth, but have a twist.
The train is what’s important, not the track:
the Present’s where we happen to exist.
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