Untitled No. 1

The bastards of the realm stutter;
they convince those to be
nothing as long as they agree without hesitation

Agree. They say. Agree. They warn. Agree.

And then fall back. Fall back into the mud where
we all crawl, wet, cold, tired; lost is
not the right word: maybe there is no right word

Agree. They say. Agree. They warn. Agree.

No fault is driven by children, family; days on
end of more days on end costing
warped sin of desperate failing light, shadowless

Agree. They say. Agree. They warn. Agree.

Emerging from the corner like a beacon to
quickly shrink, whimpering,
back-peddling as if promising a concurrent smile

Agree. They say.  Agree. They warn. Agree.

Contradictions remain silent, looking for an
opening only to yet again fall,
sickeningly short; a door slams, a baby cries

Agree. They say. Agree. They warn. Agree.

What to do with the baby? So young. So loud
when it cries. Movement random,
unheralded, unleashed. What to do with the baby?

Agree. They say. Agree. They warn. Agree.

Ah, but what to do…

     

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About stevewhitmore

Former award-winning newspaperman and broadcast journalist, both radio and TV, spanning three decades. Army-trained paralegal, court bailiff and prosecutor's lead investigator for the 8th Infantry Division's Judge Advocate General's Corp., Mainz, Germany. 1973-1975.
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