I just read three stolen books, and not one of them is worth their weight in this poem by John Ashberry:
As virtuous men float mildly away
so do our minutes hasten toward the rain,
some speckled, some merely numinous,
and so it goes. The Traveler and his Shadow
find much to concur on. The wreckage of the sky
serves to confirm us in delicious error.
Congratulations on your life
Not even doing it
makes up for the loss it guaranteed.
Only a 28-year water supply
shields us from the desert.
Sticker shock awaits plaid gutter boys
pissing out over a stream. Surely if you were
going to count that against him the others would befall too.
That's not what he was saying, Uncle.
We're going to have a friendly chat with him
in the belief that someone will vote for you.
Pleated regret that is easier
by the end of the war inhibits only cats.
Some other holy man was here before
and the eunuchs made much over him.
In the small garden a harmonica was heard braying.
. . . . . . .