Two Thousand Poems
By MTC cronin

Fate was never decided.
Two thousand poems later and still
the tip of its little finger remains unfilled.
You might have lived importantly
in a city or like the insignificant bucket
broken by the well in that dusty old town.
None of this matters when you have
not yet done what you came here to do.
Don’t ask the great loud voice what that is.
You’re a fool if you listen to the murmurs
intended for other parts of this earth.
Asleep in your three flowerbeds
or dancing around for cash
is all the same as a sun discussion
or reading stories on the sea.
You should enjoy this warning.
Cleaning up after yourself
is all God wants.