3 december

so it will bloom and the room will fill with roses the supposed will have noses they will turn up and the turnips will be offended upended and overwhelmed at the helm the captain oh captain my napkin has fallen and the calling will go out like a mighty twisted shout as the screams call back and the collected come unsorted we have all been getting cavorted about the standing doubts have been still with nobody to till the fields and as the lamp clicks off the timer the forty-eighth says to the forty-niner we are all of us measured and numbered and nobody wants to be left  after one hundred but I will stand when the gardens fall and I will listen when the cattle call the dogs bark the trees start for the hills and the mountains turn away the dramatic landscapes quake slowly but no one notices no one focuses on the right things at the times that matter when I am adding the title to this story it will be years too late for the downsodden glory that whistled through the caves of the sea-splashed canyon the weary-eyed travelers who came before the sleepless soldiers who landed on our shores sure of getting somewhere and ending nowhere else we wanted to give them something but instead we gave ourselves these are the stories kept in the weathered bluegray cabinets the buttons all are broken and the silverware is gone we are keeping all our newspapers we’re marching toward the sun and when the moon comes up tomorrow we will find our work is done