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                        On the Launching Pad and Counting

 

                         The blood is turgid

                         breathes heavily upon the stairs

                         each hour sticks in the throat

                         repeats itself day by day

 

                         I am not a moral man

                         just a tired man

                         sleep in the afternoon  sometimes

                         remember a nine cent loaf of bread

                         count the pennies  curse the stars

                         hedge my bets and wonder a bit

                         are you really there  is it all a charade?

 

                         I have become a private man

                         sit alone and think too much

                         the body betrays me

                         I hurry past dark and dismal alleys

                         shall I be cremated  or buried?

                         one is too hot  the other too cold

                         the inertness of it troubles me

 

                         Shot me into outer space

                         a star in eternal orbit

                         around the Earth  my mother

                         I hope she will remember me

 

 

 

                                                      Jack Mashman

                                                      Rev. 1995