We wait
	For an epiphany,
	For some
	Revelation
	Of what to do,
	Of whom
	To do it with.
	The only sound
	Is that
	Of a leaf-blower,
	Run by someone
	Who already knows
	What his job
	Is supposed to be.
	I guess
	I knew... once;
	Or thought
	I did.
	But forty years
	Turns out
	A lot longer
	Than I supposed,
	And change
	Harder to evade
	Than I imagined.
	Barely half
	Those forty years
	Now are done—
	What am I to do?
	What do I
	Want to do?
	The world
	Doesn't seem to care:
	"Do anything at all!
	I will grind
	You down.
	Though a part
	Of Me,
	You are
	The tiniest grain
	Of sand
	In my Time
	And—"
	I fear to write
	The thought,
	The thought that
	I do not matter.
	But I no longer know
	Whether I do
	Or not.
	I no longer
	Seem to know
	Much at all.

5/10/95

© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

Previous Poem Return to poem list. Next Poem