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Always
Seven
by
C.B. Anderson
It wounds my pride
when I'm reminded
of
My sins and tears
that chase their
aftermath.
I envy those who
choose the path
of love
And somehow manage
to subdue their
wrath
When put upon.
My customary sloth
Precludes my dressing
up in spotless
garments,
And I'm content
with wearing shabby
cloth
To circumvent
the avarice of
varmints
Who'd strip me
bare without a
thought. I've
had
It with the gluttony
of beasts who
thrust
On me their urgent
needs. It makes
me sad
That we're connected
by a common lust.
. . .
I've little faith
in virtue's strength.
I hope
Some fool will
demonstrate his
charity
By giving me a
hand. Perhaps
the Pope
Can draft a bull
condemning clarity,
Vouchsafing ample
fortitude to do
Away with tiresome
prudence. After
all,
What justice will
be served for
me or you
If temperance
vitiates tonight's
last call?
. . .
I always put my
trust in Baby
Jesus,
For he's the one
who brings the
precious rock;
But when he can't,
I'm much less
dopey-sneezy --
I'm bashful-grumpy/happy-sleepy,
Doc.
©
2007
by C.B. Anderson
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About the Author
C.B.
Anderson
was the longtime
gardener for the
PBS television
series, The Victory
Garden. Many scores
of his poems have
appeared in dozens
of print and electronic
journals. His
e-chapbook, A
Walk in the Dark,
can be read on
the website of
The New Formalist
Press.
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