Waiting. Waiting. From where I sit
I see but platitudes of prepositions in multitudes in wait,
Rapacious greyhounds―verbs and nouns cut off at the gate—
While dangling snails modify themselves in the gambit
Toward their verbal soup seeking refuge.
What’s quick and nearer are the terrors
Writ and easy abscess to blatant errors
In the long run baked in the heat of subterfuge:
Aye me! What act that roars so loud and thunders in the index?
Yet pundits scream and stream the name of truth
With the watchword “Breaking news!” Abstruse,
Perhaps, yes! Obtuse and perpendicular to a blatant text
Announcing nothing more than ounces first, then gallons
Of bile and holiness at the claw and retribution in the talons.