We cringe at the celebratory binge when
We are compelled drink and think, once again,
Of peace. It is a time of resolution absent
Resolve. The idea of peace consumes us
Morsels of strife starve us--piecemeal.
One bite, one swallow at a time. We cannot
Stop. A dream or taste of truce, of salad days,
Of no desserts, just one course after another.
There is no waiter, only self-service, a buffet
Of gluttony. It is a repast, an annual feast
Of indulgence. Desire and guilt feed off, and
On, each other, as do we. We lack the discipline
To govern our appetites. We gorge on hope
Until we vomit and toast another year.
Bruce Morton divides his time between Montana and Arizona.
No comments:
Post a Comment