Perfecting a tan in the summer heat,
The karma you tried to strangle last week,
The puzzle with too many edges to seek
And parts that never completely fit,
Became a crimson rhino’s horn,
Then sowed a weed in a field of corn,
Then gave us walls of Styrofoam
To call our only home-sweet-home –
‘Oh, amateur under a surgical mask,
With great ideas that will not last,
Oh, Karma, ye who rig the match,
Because no player needs to catch
The kind of ball we have to fetch –
Are you the game we play in court,
Or a lawyer getting fat?
Or a cup who calls himself a glass,
Or a spider, not a cat?
Or a lobster who can calmly trot
Down every basement stair?
Or a leprechaun in the Amazon
Who can’t believe he’s there?
Or a lazy autumn afternoon
That doesn’t seem to care?’
Copyright 2017 Robert Gardner