They shall all come now, and that is the pity,
Their pity,
To talk turns around It
And how bad it has been found to be
How they are filled with woe and rue
And how long it leaves for
The narrowed foreshortened list
That naïve expectations sketched
And an unplanned plan firmed up
With derogations and compromises.

Will they ever talk of something else?
All our snacks and “good mornings” now shackled
In that gray pity.
How they plan for a misery.
Yes, let’s test. Test and measure and educate a guess
So they can be almost certain of their piteous curtailment,
Of a few Summers less,
Of birthday songs that ring like a lament.
So I can know how long I have left to sing and be happy.

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