It meant we’d get there when we could,
although we’d suffer angst and grit.
It meant we’d do just as we should,
despite the fact that something wouldn't
fit.
It meant, at times, that we’d give in;
at others, that we’d never quit.
It meant that we’d screw up again
then mouth our ritual amends
with mustered wit.
It meant we’d often sorely fail,
though now and then we’d score a hit.
We’d hound to death our fictive grail
then shrink our narrative to scale –
an epic to a skit.
It meant our truth was like a knot,
our hope – a narrow, hidden slit.
We pondered as we stirred our pot
that years ago we cared a lot
but now we couldn’t give a shit.
And while its vapors filled our tent,
the universe turned on its spit.
We conned it as around it went.
And though we guessed at what it meant,
we couldn’t fathom what we meant to it.