Classic Poem

(30 September 1993)

It's a habit by now
head bent
at four a.m., the birds wake
to complain

they do this cackling in
forgotten dialects of the poor

yesterday's count was thirty-one-thousand
as if longing for more

the morning news will bring
more bodies to the surface

counting is one way
of thinning the eye
to a diet of faith

someone says if there's divine justice
it favors solid foundations

mud & rock slip through God's fingers

we can discuss this at length

but if prayers are shouts
pain is the lost argument