Obedience

The cold, restless world laughs at you for loving its accidental qualities,
like rest stop structures in February sunlight
or a family of ducks in a drainage ditch.

You haven’t learned to channel your affections into the infinity
of money or Netflix, or even splat them against the brick wall of blank sex,
but, instead, assiduously listen to the complaints of elder persons,

whose own desires are not particularly deep,
But maddeningly revolve around outlet malls and soup;
and in this subordination of concerns,

your volatile and aesthetic to their plodding and sepulchral,
in this willing obedience, you have hit upon, if not a forma vitae,
then at least a good-natured method of carrying your own cross.

*A previous version of this page contained a misprint which has now been corrected. This version reflects the correct text of the poem; Dappled Things sincerely regrets the error.