Alouette

An idle thought, a sad reminder, marks
This afternoon, a long and boring one
While I wait for the setting of the sun
(A sunset empty of delight, or sparks),
And try to stop believing that the larks,
With their plucked beaks and tendency to run,
Are after me. I’ve been under the gun,
But only small things bother me, like quarks.

I may be in the dark; I’ve lived too long
Not to appreciate the blissful state
My ignorance has left me in, both late
And soon, getting and spending, right and wrong,
Dispensing with women and wine — not song.
No, I’m still singing at a startling rate.