Waste your hours like scattering coins.
And day ends like a tool just dying.
His mind a mass of trifles, penny candy.
His thoughts of gobbets, shreds.
Sky grows dark indifferently.
A hazy ring around the moon.
No wit for prayer, no curiosity.
No priest with oil to thumb his brow.
No one bends to hear his words
His fingers twitch on the covers.
Today you cleared your throat a hundred times.
Agreed with twenty cliches. Made toast.
You looked at your watch five times an hour.
You are that fool. And now it's night.
I stood the corns of dark
And bore the insulting hours.
Watching scrimshaw light across my walls.
I listened to the morning drudgery of birds.
I walked genteel streets each day
Past shops with shiny things in windows;
I heard the clink of futile coins.
I'd have given every pretty toy
For one word as true as cherries.
But I heard the rich fraternal laughs
Of countermen and priests
And knew I'd have to search for gold alone
In corners of midnight cities
While nighthawks cried the hours.
-- Paul D. McGlynn