Some Grown Ups
Fallen into the fruitless habit
of voicing, almost only,
joyless impossibilities.
Psycho-spiritually defined by
unimaginative, nauseating negations.
Mindless of the Lilliputian parade
of miraculous quotidiana,
small accomplishments
waltzing always to the
second hand’s palsied progress.
So much scuttles by them
unbidden, unsung, marching
with miniscule majesty
toward the horizon-
vanishing blithely
while they stay behind embittered,
reloading their arms,
unsmiling,
shooting fish in a barrel.
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