The Myth of the Bureaucrat
The flaky breeze of cotton and haydust
tumbling waves like myth-maiden locks in the
granary sink below tides of academic jargon,
the best sharpened scythes of our modern age.
Far-flung from these white shadows of people
in name and flutter coat, trailing to empty
early evening parking lots, running
cost estimates for window shades in padded cells.
I was waiting, shoe-shined, in a melancholy
hour's clock striking, getting ready for
when everything would be wonderful;
it's even a long time waiting to get to heaven.