Daily poem

A Note from When I Was Here to Anyone Here

April 19. Sunday. Uncommonly warm.
The Times details signs of the coming collapse,
tells of a generation of casual killers
making its way past puberty in small towns,
of lakes and rivers all the fish are gone from,
reports the prayers of women with covered faces
who beg for the end of war, the return of their sons,
and gives the financial news with ingenious graphs.

It also invites subscriptions, which we can take
as an act of faith in delay, in possibly not.

If you are there, are here, and you can read this,
mostly we hoped you would be, mostly we do,
and there were some who tried to make that likely,
though not me much, nor many that I knew.


by Miller Williams