MUSTARD SEEDS

Nobody's fault,
really; it's in
the mustard seed
I suspect.
We're given
our rations
before entry
& can only eat
from that plate
or tin can.
It is
a war
of sorts,
all the time,
and we act,
or not,
accordingly.
Angry?
of course.
Bitter?
sometimes.
The rules,
if any,
are none.
To advise
or suggest
alternatives
cannot be
avoided.
They can
only be
brokered
by chance
& chances
taken.

Old age
has softened
me like
a fine Brie--
allowed to run
& gain
a slow
knowledge
of urgency.
I would hold grudges
like a wizened Jew
with Alzheimer's,
forgetting
everything
else.

But not now.
No longer
does it make sense
or matter.
By the time
the jury decides
& is polled
it's over.
Then,
and only then,
is it time
to shed
a little
ink.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014