Our Times
Adding and subtracting time from the labor of days
Over and over the pouring of sweat on numbers
While on the refrigerator door the paper mound raise
Of bills unpaid, and the polite voice that customers
Know unmistakeably as the cut off point of water
And of light: this is the season when men despair
At the pounding cold concrete pavement with fear
Of callous mornings cold as a heart. So long after
The promises and no Jordan yet, the hands grow
Soft from inacitivity, in the void of the eyes we know
We cannot look each other straight, we cannot speak
But somehow hope makes each day begins the week.
What shall I tell you for all your faith in tomorrow
O yes the sun shall be there, but shall dead leaves
And dry grass, and new things to make us sorrow
More. Each heart now its own lying web so weaves
Since drowning do not think how safe what they hold
They die threshing still, and shall I call that bold?
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2012
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