The newspaper says Americans spend
at least seven years of their lives sitting
in front of red lights, an astounding measure of time
wasted. We claim we are free yet still we sit
and wait for the green to tell us when to go,
know each moment is precious yet still we move
too slow, refuse to let go of the inevitable flow
of time, minutes that will consume us, eat away
at our lives no matter where we are, stuck
in traffic or on the seat of some slut-stained bar,
there’s no way of knowing which sip will be our last
yet still we rush past the meat of our poems,
keep on pushing until we push too far—
every second, every syllable, every soul
exploding with the intensity of a billion combustible stars
yet here we are once again, wasted, looking
around, trying to point a finger when we can’t
even tell which way is up, which way is down.
Lost, a generation of fools and lovers
who they say will never make it, never
claim our stake in this great game
but I feel they are wrong and will
eventually be put to shame,
learn that the rhyme is in the reason,
not in the name and one day
it’ll all make sense though it’ll never
make the grade. But it’s okay
as long as we stay with one ear pressed
firmly to the ground, feel the rumble
of the future, make it ours
before it even makes a sound.

08/05/2005

Posted on 08/05/2005
Copyright © 2025 Malika Bierstein