I just finished reading slaughterhouse-five. I'm not sure that I fully grasp what it was trying to say, but it made me think. Although this poem has little to do with the subject of the book, time was an important character in the story, and time made me think of this:


I worry
That I will dry up, and shriveled,
Tell turgid ones of my years wet and splashing,
Then scare them, as they see no more sparkle droplets
Fly from my eyes

I fear
That the chaff of my voice will rattle,
Then fall empty and broken,
To bend the corners of sausage lips
Writhing with chagrin and distance

I know
That my thoughts will always wrinkle,
To form crevices deep,
Brimming with gold veins and quartz
Waiting for bold plunder

But, I wonder
Will the pick always reach?
Will the wheelbarrow carry?
Will the jewels reach air?

…Will the canary sing of warning?