Theory of Everything
I pace my little hall, no mystery,
sit by my window listening: birds, of course.
My books, I can hardly read them,
they make so much sense.
Someone skips school. He knows enough.
Someone is fired, there are reasons.
Someone breaks down, there is reason
after reason. A patient, admitted,
is cured, and dies of the cure.
Forms are submitted (natural causes),
ascending through the purest offices
like scentless prayers, we believe.
Someone’s frustration sweeps his desk—
papers fly out. In due course,
they touch the floor, and already
troops move. From the bleeding front
fevers spread, and opportunists like fevers,
as evolution says they must.
Houses are emptied, farms stripped,
and Death, chain-smoking commandant,
lights one child off another. Pardon: old story.
What causes are not natural?
Who can object to partly cloudy?
Who disagrees with the news as usual?
You’re right, the world has no need for imagination.
It makes sense, it makes so much sense.
