Morgan Freeman’s voice coos
over an endless blaze of snow
and lets the penguins (slate-gray stones for backs)
know they’re not alone.
He could, if he wanted,
reach out to all the suicides,
depressives, agoraphobes, and eremites,
the lonely ones, huddled under blankets
in the dark, half-eaten bowls
of Frosted Flakes in their laps.
He could call them up and tell
them, like an avuncular god,
that everything’s going to be okay,
that their species is not endangered (not even
threatened). They can finish their
Frosted Flakes, turn off their televisions,
and lumber off to bed.
There’s no snowy road to take tonight –
we can pretend our Antarctic winter
is seven thousand miles away.
This conveys a wonderfully, powerful message. [props] And it makes all the Frosted Flakes, at least for a little while, a little more soggy.
ReplyDeleteSo I say, WELL DONE! You are an effective poet, and I admire you more each and every day!