I stopped taking most things seriously
since I found out that I could not,
lose weight by clicking there,
and I did click there
only to find dashed hopes
and cruel intentions.

I remember where I was
when I discovered
Gilligan died a second time,
and scars from the first
(some ten years earlier)
radiated with the changing weather.

One of my relatives claims
(with five exclamation points, no less)
on her Facebook page
with a link
claiming a source
from sourced sources.
Icy is her silence
when asked
why border patrol
would let known terrorists
into our country,
but that's a conversation
in and for another time,
I suppose.

The truth is that it is all terribly boring:
I struggle to pay attention now
as it is very early
and I'm driving to work
and I have just enough coffee
to remember to write down this poem later
when the Rolling Stones
remind me of the simple truth:
that I can't help but love
the French horn and guitar
being together in those opening moments,
like an internet video
of a chimpanzee
cradling a baby goat
(which I learn, now, is actually inhumane
because sedation is involved).

And it is inhumane, friends,
that you can't always get want you want,
but that's what keeps you
driving down this dark, dawn-lit road
to take you
everywhere you wish to be --
that's what you get.

In this morning,
and every other after,
that's what you need.



Copyright © 2017 John Grimmett. All rights reserved.

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