The good man plans a city
Whose streets are wide and spacious,
A place of calm civility
Where humans can be gracious.
And there are grassy areas
Where the young may safely play.
The good man plans them carefully
Throughout his working day.
But night grows nightmare spaces
All darkness, dirt and doubt.
He dreams the stink of alleyways
Where feral children sprout.
These wild unlanguaged hooligans
Outsmart the mild professor.
His logic cannot comprehend
The guile of the transgressor.
The alarm clock blares. He blinks and grunts,
All shaken and forsaken -
(For gouts of dream will stick to us
When we awaken.)
The good man has intuited
Perfection cannot be;
He weeps into his Weetabix
And sweat drips in his tea.
But undeterred he returns to work,
This good and steadfast man.
For in this hard imperfect world
He will do what he can.
He works on small improvements,
Doing as he should.
It may not be Utopia,
But it can still be good.
If you've any comments on this poem, Wayne Carvosso would be pleased to hear from you.