There’s nothing you can do,

If you set your mind to it,

Because the opposite of trouble,

Isn’t the peace you might expect,

But a faint ringing in the ears.

 

You must have a degree, and a license,

And the ability to distinguish

Between adjectives and verbs.

It helps to be a carnivore,

Because iron isn’t only good for skillets,

But for the blood that carries

Messages to the little rooms in the mind

Where the cleaning supplies are kept.

 

If you can’t hear you can’t listen,

Which might seem obvious enough,

But the obvious isn’t always enough,

Isn’t sufficient to the moment

That gives way to another moment,

So quickly that it’s impossible to know

If you’re in the past or present or future.

Perhaps all three at once.

 

That sounds like philosophy,

Or is it paleontology, or geography,

Or morphology, or hagiography?

Or photography, which enabled the selfie,

Which enabled the selfie stick,

Which enabled a person to look at herself,

Or himself, or itself, and be delighted,

Or disgusted, or puzzled by a resemblance

To Milton Friedman, who himself

Resembled Queen Victoria, but only

When she was asleep in her bed.

 
 © Dennis Hathaway

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