How patient I am—
resting this and that
when I’d rather be scrambling the rocks
at Mohonk or Minnewaska.
Waiting to heal from another misstep:
a turned ankle, a sore knee,
a hip reattaching to bone—
or is the bone reattaching to the hip?
Meanwhile, Congress appears
to have misplaced its brain.
Can you count the stars?
List the things unfinished?
Draw pentagons out of thin air?
Question an atomic reactor
beside your favorite swimming hole?
Or question a president about his finances—
and whether he can name
three good things he’s done
without consulting a teleprompter.
We’re done waiting for one.
Must we keep repeating the past
as if nobody on this planet has a brain?
Perhaps they’re out there with the stars—
tiny brains awaiting harvest,
then a one-way ticket to Mars,
the billionaires’ favorite vacation plan.
Has Congress been bought and paid for?
Is the Big Dipper dripping tears?
Does mother’s milk enrich uranium?
Are children being issued longer bodies
and shorter attention spans?
Meanwhile, my older frame
keeps growing sideways and fluffing up.
Should I buy hippo clothes
and embrace the trend?
Shall we pray to the heavens,
then eat Ding Dongs and Devil Dogs
buried under ice cream, chocolate syrup,
and maraschino cherries?
But I digress.
I was out on the rocks,
spider-walking between two glacial erratics,
thinking I could do anything—
realizing, of course,
that someday it will all be over.
So I inhaled the clean air
and waited patiently for my turn
to dip my little hippo toes
into a cool, rushing brook.
And there, between the rocks,
everything seemed simple:
gravity, water, sky—
no spin, no scandals,
no billionaires headed for Mars.
For once,
the rocks made more sense
than Washington.
And frankly,
I’d rather talk to rocks.
