From the cramped apartment window
The snow-covered pines stand as soldiers
With musket arms they shiver and plead:

We once stood planted on this hill
And holding fast found we must kill

To crush the hate we found out there
But we turned our backs to find despair

And we grew lost through fog and pine
Our hatred wasn’t healed by time

And if not reconciled our collective past
Our souls—these drifting houses—won’t be the last


A Little Man

I once knew a little man
who kept at a job he did not understand

and day after day
he’d go to work and he’d say:
today I’ll learn who I am

but Monday came
and then it went
and Tuesday came
but it too was spent
As Wednesday and Thursday
and even Friday, sitting
in a confused lament

so week after week
his office chair squeaked
until finally he made up his mind
he’d quit, he decided, and just in time
for that very night he died in his sleep