Postmodernity
I feel like a vagabond in that neighborhood.
No one lets me eat.
No pies on the windowsill, no money.
My bark capsizes in the rain.
I see the animals are well-fed though–
especially the fish.
The fish had better watch out.
I am like a pond, unstocked, on the other
side of the lawn. The unclean spirit,
the house in the woods.
They put me out, they see I have no magic
in my pocket,
no fat, white rabbit
to yank through a hole in the backyard,
or into the wide windows of the diningroom.
Oh isn’t it wonderful?
Everything to become dinner…
Now, with the whole family seated to say grace,
who will say grace?