The Fate of Things

Res ipsa loquitur . . .

Everything that could be created has.

No, that's wrong! There's an infinity of things,

They crowd me close, each wretched dingus

Wanting an owner and respect,

To last until it's good and wrecked.

And who can say when that might be?

Like us they love eternity,

Old, crippled things, so hard to see.

Discarding them you must play rough

And dig them under, like the tough

Who ploughs the dough that buys the stuff.

I do my best to ward them off

Or hurl them from the light of day

To the Golgotha called “away,"

For it's impossible to find

(could be that the seeker’s blind).

Christmas Day, 2025