Catastrophic

We are a nation fattened on sorrow and pity,
for happiness is no longer interesting.
The home and hearth is well and good but please,
keep that to yourselves. We would hear of abuse:
a harsh word or a slap on the ass,
a squeeze on the thigh or spring-blossom breast.
Give us these confessions, for we are brought
together in imperfection, we are partners
in our discontent, lovers in misery.

Tell us of the homeless, that increase
exponentially, you would have us believe.
And we do believe, with ravenous desire.
Tell us the latest statistics, because
we feed on the music of numbers. We stare
at the face of doom like apes in a mirror.
It's an ever increasing wonder how many of us
are truly mystified. We want you to tell us
again the number. It makes us feel that we

cannot fairly rank ourselves among the poor,
being that we have roofs and television, not
when we are told about the bedraggled
workless homeless (the number please).
How can we feel poor when we lay our heads
on eiderdown every night and dream dreams?
The television reassures us that we are
moral and good, for we do not run in gangs,
sleep around, or beat our wives and children.

And when the daily bread of human failure
ceases to really satisfy, we are given
the heaven-sent balm of some new disaster:
a plane gone down or building bombed:
people dead, firemen sifting among rubble,
grieving women weeping into a newsman's
microphone. The tears and the limitless sobbing
hearten us to new joys, and we may lay down,
for the time being, the burden of our lives.


mid 90s (imitating Jarrell most likely)