Ah, Me! Poem by Frank Avon

Hopelessness is not terminal,
nor does it slowly fade away;
it doesn't require surgery
nor does it respond to rest
and a couple of aspirin.
There is no vaccine,
no antidote, no vitamin B12.

It may be precipitated by
gray weather, day after day;
it doesn't rustle like the wind
or clap like thunder, or drizzle
on one's uncovered head.

Suddenly it's there.

One marks wars on the map
with multicolored pins.
Is there a pattern?
Is anywhere invulnerable?
The dead multiply,
each one generating another.

Things do not stay put;
they disappear in a rear-view.
One's eyesight, one's hearing,
one's hair, one's potency,
one's energy, ones' memory,
and so on and so forth....

Don't rely on priests or deacons;
they're raising funds to
repair the sanctuary,
or finance their term
at the seminary;
one of them is counseling
the moderator's spouse;
another is having an affair
with the church treasurer.

Don't expect ones you elect
to maintain your respect:
they spend most of their time
(and cash) to get re-elected.
They flex their muscles,
their pecs and their abs,
to impress tv reporters
or their affluent supporters,
or the woman they're seeing
in South America.

Your local newspaper editors
have already got your obituary
set in type, for when it's needed
- if you are that important.
If you're not, your relatives
will pay by the line, when
the time arrives. Be sure
you have sufficient insurance.

At every major intersection
stands a man with a cardboard sign
and a hat extended, or a box
at his feet. 'I am broke.
I need your HELP. Or some cash.'

Ragweeds in your garden grow
faster than your marigolds
and never bloom a single bloom.
Neither does hopelessness.