Song of Thanksgiving

I have been angrier, but not since Spring,
When all those damned buds bloomed — you do recall
The dead land, don’t you, sort of a catch-all
For those distressed wheatfields? It’s humbling,
The murmurs of our past, the way they sing
“Turned glorious summer!” But you know the Fall
Is always on its way. So you stand tall,
And I rise, too, intending everything,

But I do nothing, just the same as you,
And nobody is there with grace, or style,
And even when you make that awful smile,
The grimace of a lion in the zoo,
I can’t remember why we’re here. It’s true:
Our lives are acid, and our hearts are bile.