A Hymn to Objectivity
The meter of this poem
will be like ticks of a clock —
no, I mean, ticks of clocks.
On contemplation of my navel
I see only what appears to be
a tiny muffin.
I believe that clapping
takes two hands,
that physic is superior to psychic.
I find symbols, creeds and pledges
mere salutes to non-existent continuity;
that lighting one small candle
doesn’t light a village;
that charity promotes
sanctimony and governmental savings;
that when I seem near death
but see a light at tunnel’s end,
I won’t be dead yet.
And Doubting Thomas
had a right.
