As long as everyone who cares is still
charitably huddled
charitably huddled
around this old wooden
metaphor of a table—
dog-tired by now, and dying
to know
just how much longer
a correspondingly metaphorical
coin will go on spinning—does it matter,
when it finally falls
when it finally falls
flat, whether the vacant silver
face that stares back
elicits their thoughts
(as the abject and silent
majority hopes), or if
it comes down the same
way as before—in accordance
way as before—in accordance
with the gut-hunches of the most
experienced onlookers:
experienced onlookers:
on the mythical magic tails
of their prayers?
of their prayers?
