Born-Again Questions

How can you who are not or do not

feel complete without her or them

or us decide what to throw out

and what to keep?

 

Who can say when it’s time to say

goodbye or who to say hello to 

or how loudly, or how hard to wave?

 

Where do you choose to live in a world

that’s running out of places to park 

or even drive, park benches, a space

to place your fork on a table full

of broken plates, knocked-over glasses,

when you can’t even find a chair?

 

What will you do when you’ve been warned

every day since birth that you don’t have

much time but must divide

your mind into a million choices,

forever haunted by what you’ve missed?

 

Whose voice should you listen to?

Who knows how to describe the truth,

that elusive loop that calls for a sleuth?

 

Not me, baby!  I’m delighted to dwell

in a delicatessen of delusions.  It’s 

a treat just to stuff my face while

strange loved ones starve as I’m

too cheap to flip ’em a quarter

to buy a piece of gum for lunch.

 

But don’t worry too much, please:

biology will get its revenge.  The walls

of my heart are spray-painted

with self-imposed cholesterol,

and when it stops I’ll take a bow

and crumple to the floor

like Scrooge before he was transformed

into a mensch.  At least then

maybe my poor hungry neighbors

might have a chance to eat

something besides refusal

or chump change for a change.

 

Bury me in a dumpster.

Sing “We Gotta Get Out of This Place”

and “Home on the Range.”

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