Date: 23-Oct-10
Author: Luke Whitington
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Should we have just one more spoonful of worry?
Perhaps another little sprinkle of fear?
How it crunches loudly on our cereal,
Each of us tense enough at our perch,

At prim plastic topped tables,
Convened, in the first greyness of light,
From prepaid rooms of restlessness, 

Later, after the lecture on histrionics,
At noon, a last lonely smorgasbord of despair,
A chance to share concern, to break our anguish and bread,
With others on an exemplary day of conventions of anxiety, 

The last chance to exchange creaking cards
Before we seep back into the real thing,
The brash glaze of a smog smug city,
The apprehension of shifting days
Growing older against a din of demented cars

Luke Whitington.

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Comments (1)

Posted: 22-Jan-11 15:15 by christiane dupuy-wibracht Permalink

Hello Luke, a name of the past, 1973, Perugia, I actually, somewhere have a poem that you wrote for me. Just found your name in a school notebook. Cool that you are still writing!

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