A Lament on Living

Woke this morning in fear and trepidation

Of wrongness in my home, my own nation,

Where did the hopes, the faith, the pride

Go? Have we been lost? Have we died?

Where has joy in living gone? It’s not here.

Why do I lament at the bar, cry in my beer?

Has living become somehow lost I pouted

With glass in hand as I looked and as I shouted

At those poor souls oppressed by hard living,

Drooping heads in hands and not really giving

A damn or care for others gathered hurting there?

I put my empty glass down. Stood, looked around.

Walked to swinging barroom door, homeward bound.

On sidewalk, paused outside and shook my head.

And realized that, yes, we were surely, truly dead.