He's fast asleep, a cup clutched in his hands
Half full or emptier of coffee: still,
He cannot raise his eyelids, and he stands
(Sits rather) as a monument to will
Defeated by itself. His underbrain
Has roused its might to keep his mind unroused,
And whether from the long day or that strain,
The edifice in which his mind is housed
Has fallen dormant, and he will not move.
Yet why should he? The bus will move perforce,
And therefore it would not seem to behoove
His present state to modify his course:
He can still sleep and yet move toward his goal
Gleaning some little comfort for his soul.
No comments:
Post a Comment