The papers are wet with ink.
Russia is losing it's war.
North Korea is swamped with the Covid.
Tucker is backpedaling his replacement theory.
Finland and Sweden are enrolling.
Armament shipments are making a difference.
The Pope is apologizing.
That needs repeating: The Pope is apologizing.
(But why stop with the Aboriginals. Consider the Jews and Irish).
Fossil fuels are on the decline.
(plastic microchips are in our fat)
I can still buy Roundup.
Tobacco is banned in most public places here.
*** is not.
There are more drunks, and more behind bars, and in front.
We have safe injection sites.
I have robots asking me if I'm a robot.
There are more tv stations selections.
TV is not worth watching.
LPs are making a comeback.
Right to Life is Wrong for Many.
... and on... and on

I'm hardly the one
You left behind,
Twenty odd years ago;
The suit fits much better,
Now I'm in the show.
I'm not using slight-of-hand,
No smoke or mirrors,
Just running sand;
The big tent long left town.

I know the four directions,
And how my wind will blow.
And even at a four way stop
I know who has the right-of-way.
And when it's my turn to turn,
I'll step on the pedal and spin my wheels
And drive myself insane.

I should've written Thanks across a blue sky,
Where the winds would carry my message
Around the world.
But I didn't even try.

I should've banged my pots and pans,
Put a sign out on my lawn,
Or at least on a forward facing window.
But I didn't, and I'm wrong.

I could've, with minimal exertion,
Clicked Like or Love
On one of the millions of gratitude posts
Praising them... Them,
The essential and not so essential workers
On our northern, southern, eastern and western Fronts.
But I didn't, and it haunts.

So,
I will now say,
Thank You
To all those who expressed Thank You
To all those who have kept us healthy, safe and secure:

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU.

I scanned the old man
Through my translucent curtain.
He stood before my door, hand raised,
Seeming ready to knock.
Wires ran into his large ears;
His waddle swayed over his crew neck,
Beneath a brown corduroy jacket.
Liver spots crowned his wispy head,
And the back of his hand.
He listed and bobbed
Like a Huron laker waiting to unload.
He had a distinct and not unfamiliar look;
A man with full faculties.
I opened the door to him,
But he said, "It's not time."
"Time?" I asked.
"To let me in."

I've an itch to scratch
Inside my nose;
An itch that runs
Down to my toes.
I'll yoga pose
With those, my toes,
To wiggle-tiggle
That scratchy itch
Tickling my nose.

Where have all the assassins gone,
I'm just asking,
Where have all the hit-men gone,
It wasn't long ago.
Where have all the psychos gone,
Ones like Sirhan Sirhan,
Or a crazy red Russian,
Lining crosshairs for Vlad Putin.

Where have all the agencies gone,
I'm just asking,
The MI5, the CIA,
KGB, Mossad;
Where have covert actions gone,
When there's guys like crazed Kim Jong;
Or a crazed Red Russian,
A narcissistic Vlad Putin.

Where have all our heroes gone,
I'm just asking;
Where have all our leaders gone,
Not so long ago.
Where have all fine Russians gone;
Boris was their last good one;
When will we ever learn,
Ego-maniacs can't govern.

I didn't do anything controversial today
Other than hear the news.
I must be an aberration; in the minority.
I didn't shoot my mouth off;
I didn't shoot anyone,
Or invade my neighbour's space.
If I did, I'd be the news.
All I did was write an inconsequential poem
With a pen moving across straight blue lines.
I'll bet Chris Wallace won't read it on the news.