(A sticky note on my forehead.)
Is it so hard to keep my mouth closed when
I’ve nothing complimentary to say?
It’s not that I’ve no tact, can’t count to ten,
nor is it I was born just yesterday.
Nor does the world depend on me to know
the right way and the wrong to do a thing —
right breaths and fingering on a piccolo,
or how to serve the chicken à la king.
Why must I set things right? And what is right?
And who besides me cares as much as I?
And why do I care? Just some ancient blight —
childhood or prior life — still in my eye?
I ought to die a better death, next time
around — and fetch a happier paradigm . . .
If you have any comments on this poem, Leland Jamieson would be
pleased to hear them.