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



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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