And here’s a poem for you.  I wrote it about ten years ago.

March 2nd, 2003

We sit, muted, restless of purpose
and wanting to feel joy.
It is a birthday, mine,
but it could be anyone’s.
We talk about movies, popular films
lacking in consequence or grace,
for thirty-seven minutes.

We are saying to each other, here,
here, take this.  I can give you
half an hour without news broadcasts,
without manufactured terror.
But such a long time lends itself
again to draining, and the subtle,
anxious bone of malcontent creeps.

It has the nerve to give my mother’s
lemon chicken a tired flavor.
They give me small envelopes of money
without cards.  We are all effete.

We are all waiting.
Later, at home, we turn on the radio
at surprise moments to see if
war has broken out.