Number Seven Will Surprise You

Admit it: you knew better than to click,
but now entrapped and clicking like a zombie,
still searching for the promised nifty trick,
avoiding popup ads from Abercrombie
& Fitch --  boy, they do wonders with those buttons,
the Next one moves about so that you miss.
Wait, what is that? A diet made for gluttons!?
No, must continue, "x" it out, dismiss....
As you do battle armed with but a mouse
(for some of you it's just an index finger)
you wonder if this happens to your spouse
when he is "hard at work"...but do not linger.
Aha, that's better, here's the trick at last.
Turns out the nifty diet is a fast.

Turns out the nifty diet is a fast.
Annoyed that you've just wasted a whole hour,
you check the news: some woman has been cast
as Hamlet.  Speaker's struggling for power,
what else is new, elections coming up,
the Middle East continues medieval,
the Rangers hope to win the Stanley Cup,
and Ivies can't distinguish good from evil,
so basically the same as yesterday.
Remember when the rapid pace of change
was hurtling towards us, come what may?
What happened? Tell me, doesn't it feel strange
that we appear so stuck with change ascendant?
Embittered, disillusioned and dependent.

Embittered, disillusioned and dependent.
We, each of us, reliant on our meds,
ashamed, perhaps, but wholly unrepentant,
our dignity and grace all torn to shreds,
we persevere in rituals of healing
pretending to empower, to connect,
as if one could fix anything by kneeling,
while adding hopes and prayers for effect.
Increasingly we're segmented and tribal,
so like the Ten that went and gotten lost,
to earn no further mention in the Bible,
oblivion their fate, and at what cost.
No longer as a whole, no thing in common.
Alone on Christmas Eve.  I guess it's ramen.

Alone on Christmas Eve.  I guess it's ramen.
Another business trip that can't be moved,
I like it, though, because come feast or famine
at least I'm getting paid, and life's improved.
Oh, I will call her soon, now, don't you worry,
to blow a kiss, and wish the kids good night,
and tell her that for now it's just a flurry,
but I won't make the redeye for my flight.
And then the bar, where others of my kind,
each having done their best to do their duty,
will congregate, filled with the hope to find
a kindred spirit, and a little booty.
Do I feel guilty?  Do you think she knows?
Outside, the blizzard bellows as it blows.

Outside, the blizzard bellows as it blows.
Its huff and puff soon decorates the windows
in delicate designs, and each one glows
with tiny sparks and embers.  Trapped within those,
the fireplace still tends to its intent,
but you can't help but feel that something's missing,
or is it the champagne that's long since spent,
red lipstick tainted flutes.  Lips meant for kissing,
now always in a frown, so cold, unfeeling...
Appearances maintained, you do your best.
The house looks great, its festive and appealing,
so welcoming, so warm that any guest
would leave it thinking: aren't these two great!
How short the distance between love and hate.

How short the distance between love and hate.
A thin, thin line, so goes the ancient wisdom,
yet thick enough for us, at any rate.
We wallow in indifference to appease them:
our children -- no, our children cannot know
that they are the result of having settled,
their parents' love is mostly just for show,
fulfillment of a dream that has been peddled
for countless generations to maintain
the  semblance of a good and proper order:
a husband who's in charge of his domain,
his wife, to boot, and whether he adored her,
or simply tolerated, she's still Mother.
Unhappy couples, each unlike the other.

Unhappy couples, each unlike the other.
Is that a Tolstoy quote from his old book?
They find a way to strangle love, to smother
what lied between them.  Better not to look.
We do not, no, we cannot understand.
Our feelings are too maudlin, too sappy.
For those of us who're dealt a better hand,
a nagging question: can't they just be happy?
Is there some special secret to the task?
No shortage of advisors and well wishers.
You've but to raise a hand, begin to ask,
and they're at work repairing cracks and fissures.
The answer I subscribe to and espouse:
We know, deep down, the day we make our vows.