If ever there was an era
to inspire a revival in poetry
and scare us out of our anxiety
then this horrid decade’s
sense of impending doom should do,
Because the nurses have always fallen
when the air sickened with perfume.
Because for all our confidence,
there’s always something new.
Because the war, the shortages,
and all our desperate search for cures
have brought us no closer,
no further from something like a remedy.
The living ocean has seen no relief,
and wild things still march as Lemmings
freefalling into the fossil record
and leaving the list just slightly longer.
For all our best of intentions
our solutions are icepicks to the eye sockets,
though we have not found the cure.
If ever there was an era,
a time to vertebrate our words,
it’s now when worry seizes us
and stir us from our nervous sleep.