You run the course. Go ahead.
I can’t run. I never could.
Skipped and hopped about. That’s it.
Rivers run. Newspapers run,
Or did. Time runs with the best
Of them, away with the rest.
In these months of solitude
At scale, when entire cities
Politely bake behind doors,
While the yahoos drive their trucks,
Locked and loaded, flying flags,
Practicing their mouth-breathing,
There hasn’t been much recourse
For simple circulation.
It’s one of those times you can’t
Hardly not remark the way
Things are going crazily
Astray, and yet you can’t not
Know that the remarks you make
Will yellow and fade as fast
As a seedless paperback
Copy of Please Plant This Book
Printed circa ‘sixty-eight.
Times so of their times don’t last.
I get a little jog in,
True, after my own fashion.
Each day, I fashion a few
Lines mostly nothing to do
With the news or any hope
Of revolution. Here. Read
The latest. It won’t get you
Anything. It’s just something
To humor me you might do.
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