in the dominion of the musing meek,
the regal goat and bardic sheep,
it is not the besuited who are rich
and the exec masticating upon
a satphone has no greater worthiness
than the supinating wanderer in the street;
there is no uppish streak,
no desolately gilded city street,
no glass facade or motorcar or
astronaut in the domicile of wool and fur;
there is no need;
there is no ready-meal
no sparsely-windowed
maisonette to go home to -
instead the field -
there is no twilit bardo
between one workday
and the next;
instead incautious humbleness -
community -
helas! it is a shame that it does not exist
in the age of electricity
because of the likes of Adam Smith;
*
desorb the greyness of that briefcase
and that saturnine suit;
and toss that those inhibitions
that seem essential but are not;
go boogie with the bag lady on the hill;
go do a pinstriped pirouette in public view;
go corkscrew off even the most
roseate of one's regrets;
go be renewed; go be renewed;
*
there is a new life after that, dictated
by the legend scribed between the shadows
and the pavement cracks, that was engraved
by sheep before the earth was paved;
resonant to the renewed
it reads thus:
baa
resounding, to bellwethers in the aftermath,
that is enough -
because it is everything;
it is the fundamental truth.