by Hans Magnus Enzensberger
We can't complain.
We're not out of work.
We don't go hungry.
The grass grows,
the social product,
The streets are empty.
The deals are closed.
The sirens are silent.
All that will pass.
The dead have made their wills.
The rain's become a drizzle.
The war's not yet been declared.
There's no hurry for that.
We eat the grass.
We eat the social product.
We eat the fingernails.
We eat the past.
We have nothing to conceal.
We have nothing to miss.
We have nothing to say.
The watch has been wound up.
The bills have been paid.
The washing-up has been done.
The last bus is passing by.
It is empty.
We aren't complaining.
Woke up this morning with
a terrific urge to lie in bed all day
and read. Fought against it for a minute.
Then looked out the window at the rain.
And gave over. Put myself entirely
in the keep of this rainy morning.
Would I live my life over again?
Make the same unforgiveable mistakes?
Yes, given half a chance. Yes.
And there was rain a couple of days ago. And the dog, aside from being my personal trainer, is also a terrific alarm clock, so there was no hanging out in bed all morning.
I like poems with questions in them. What are we waiting for? Would I live my life over again?
And then, a poem that ends with the word, Yes.
Well, let us say yes to this day, yes to this life.
The poppies have just come out at the front of our front yard.
And on my walk, all sorts of things have begun blooming. This rose which I stood on tiptoe to photograph over someone's back fence.
The roses which line the walkway into the utility corridor:
And peonies: everywhere. Preparing, nearly ready.