Why is it that–like Humpty, the earth embraces entropy squishing its face and turning From a spoonful of healing?
But unlike Humpty's plight The King's horses and men are too busy Responding with yet another crusade To bother with putting things back together.
Meanwhile Theresa And other mothers in the fray Can only mourn and refuse The path of and to destruction.
To join mourning I put on a Dylan album. The prophet gives me The elevator pitch of history. "How many times?"
It hits a scratch and the conflict repeats the question. I take my bread and wine and digest the absurdity.
But the needle will be moved. And the wind will blow. And the Answer will come. And the record shall skip no more.