Anyone with Gray Hair

Ennui rises slowly on a Sunday

With a late crescent moon, and more war news,

And most tourists still in their hotel beds,

Although a few have hit the canyon trails.

The defenders of Ukraine are shooting

At any Russian soldier with gray hair,

As a way of targeting generals,

Which may tell us how much old men are worth.

On the other side of the hemisphere,

Songbirds are berserking dawn’s desert air.

Gas stations and coffee shops have opened,

But most stores are closed until mid-morning.

Speaking of morning, a woman stretches

And quotes the opening stanza, in full,

Of Sunday Morning, by Wallace Stevens,

Which she does on Sundays, when she feels good.

She sends you an email, mentioning this,

And you look out the dust-spotted window

Of the minuscule casita you rent,

Facing the cliffs. It’s good to be worthless.