Coruscating colors clash and confound
Me as I look at the world around me
Contained within four walls
And framed by sash not raised up to show
The flabby pale and pasty thing within
Never firm anymore despite how firm a grip
Upon it might be taken

The old longing rises yet again
To mimic taking in hand some
Long thing and working it back and forth
To make pregnant some furrowed places
Or make a good attempt at the same even if
The fields that might once have been planted
Are gone so long fallow that they
Will not take the plow and can yield no harvest
Save some small misshapen thing that might
Have featured well in the circuses of years past
But no more because we think we have
Grown past such tawdry entertainments
Although few if any of us will look away from a
Spectacle that presents itself

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