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Poems

Self Isolation

He paces back and forth,
Stamping his feet,
And for good measure,
Flips over some furniture,
In the living room of my mind.

Dressed in slacks,
Shirt and a vest,
A tie and polished shoes,
Hair neatly parted on one side,
Moustache a neat horizontal patch.

Let me introduce you,
This is my madman,
He sometimes puffs on a pipe,
Pacing back and forth,
In my living room.

“Listen to me!”
In an operatic overture,
He gives multiple directives,
All conflicting with each other,
All both Right and Wrong.

I compensate,
Balance and direction,
But it’s too late,
One lens is blue and the other pink.

My compass…
I cannot believe my eyes!
The madman’s cacophony,
Has led North chasing East,
West dancing around South,
True North rendered indecipherable.

He leads a non-syncopating orchestra,
The Emotions section,
Clashing with the Logic section,
And the Perspective section trips on its own feet and plants its face into the ground.

All this in my living room,
Wherever shall I bring my guests?
And how will they react to this man?
He will surely spit in their tea,
And slap them upside the head.