They say wonders never cease.
Who
is they,
this
multitude in a plural pronoun
that
weighs in, tips the scale,
knows
jack about everything but Jill?
No
matter.
They
are probably wrong.
The
gnarled oak root
grabs
the postman by the ankles
through
a crack in the sidewalk,
sending
him to the emergency room,
letters
from Paris and Peoria
carried
by a carefree wind
that
has no dog in the fight
over
the perpetuation of wonder.
The
final farewell from Ellen
to
Maurice splits his heart in two forever.
The
check from Uncle Henry
to
cover the chemo is deposited
in
the nearest sinking sewer,
and
the boy dies with a moth-eaten pancreas.
Wonder?
Wonder? Isn’t it a pity.
They
say this and they say that.
They
are dumber than rocks
and
as invisible as a bilgewater rat.
They
are naysayers, morons, pantaloons
who
don’t know the price of rice
though
the claim whispered at meals
is
that honey cures the plague.
I
wonder who they are.
I
wonder if there is such a thing as wonder.
Lost
in thought,
my
ideas are cartoon bubbles,
and
I am nothing more than they.
~William Hammett
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