Antiques Poem by Elizabeth Haasch

I’m sick of the madness.
The hoping for more than you’ll ever have.
The antique hearts rusting away
like a carousel that’s never be ridden.

I’m sick of waiting for the pin to fall,
the umpire to tell me I’ve struck out once again.
I’m sick. You tell me that.

What is so bad in your life
that you can’t ride on down, pedal to the medal.
Stick a cork in it.
Living life like this is no more than wasted space,
a tumor growing with no medicine to cure
such a disease to the heart.
This love is nothing more than a meaningless tragedy.
Hope is my word for you.
Hopefully you’ll see a brighter side.
And maybe that brighter side is further away
than I could ever imagine.
Over a stream of unpurified water
lie the answers to these mysteries to cure us.
The medicine for this growing tumor inside my heart.
When will you begin to realize
why I’m standing here still
luckily for you I’ve saved your life once again.
I am your doctor.
You have sucked the life right out of me
and this meaningless tragedy.
You have not once began to care about me
or us, but about your whimsical little world
full of books and brains.
Drink your scotch because we’re in for a long ride.
This antique carousel turns in the opposite direction
and you are the director of its music.