Swamped in the detritus of the post-nuclear age
I should be retired by now, hailed by the excoriating crowds
Fattened on the myth of redemption, plump with dogma,
But I sit still adumbrating the central air’s whirring
With a sigh, the only audible drone in the beehive this morning
Until I realize I’ve come into work on Saturday
Which explains my befuddlement at finding slippers, pipe
And ball-gag neatly arranged at my work-station.
So let the lamenting commence with much circumstantial pomp,
I’ve no problem conflating worlds, it only expands the market
And makes the miles more to go until the mattress factory
Passes by almost as in a dream;
So you’ll excuse me. I’ve been deigned the architect
Of a Viking funeral for later this afternoon at 4-ish
And if I don’t start making little rocks out of big ones
I’ll never make it to the coast in time to strike the flint.