Mr. Cantankerous

They say we’re evolving into robots,

or rather,

six-million-dollar men, adjusted for inflation,

or actually deflation,

since we’ll become cheaper to make,

and we’ll be everywhere, like plastic stuff

no one wants (not now, though later they will).

“People 2.0” we’ll be, they say,

though no self-respecting robot

would use that term. We don’t

go around calling ourselves

“the chimps” now, now do we?

So yes, we’ll be off flying ourselves

through space in ships oiled to light

beams, just ahead, I suppose,

of the bombs we’ve built

and the rising sea with all the

dead fish in it (it’s a vision

of hope, as I understand it, a new

chance to get it right).

Meanwhile, though, I’m stuck on this

future trash pile on Good Friday

2017, clinging to my cross,

a chimp and chump weak in the wind

of God 2.0

Awaiting your deep warmth and endless long days

A discourse of rains, of intense blues and greens.

One is gone and fights go on,

and not a few have the shakes.

I’m ashiver myself,

though your sun would bisect

this dripping wind

and give us the hope in-between.

Is it enough? It’s never enough

for the cloth-clad accuser (April’s sore loser)

still wanting to know:

who’s the righter for being colder?