Energy, abundant in little kids,
nevertheless, dissipates in adults,
endless, boundless excitement toward life
revoked as we crawl toward death, our bids,
graciously ignored, for mercy and joy,
yet, accepted as the pleas of dead bolts,
equals our incomprehension, our strife,
quality over quantity, to run,
under the circumstances, a daft ploy,
arguably ignorant of the facts,
life moves forward with time's arrow, to look
slantwise to a past long gone, absent, lacks
mass in the cranium, our large brains cook
ancient schemes to grow young again, pokes fun
secretly into the belly button,
surprising the speed of light to respond,
times like these, where we sit and wait to die,
indeed become tiresome events, no fun
makes Jacques a dull, hopeless, worried old man,
even if he could squeal with joy, Le Monde
simply cannot accept he wants to buy
the speed of light to travel back in time,
he does not know how to measure, to span
entire lifetimes unfolds the universe,
speed as swift as light and he disappears,
perishes not in a time machine, curse
everyone, Jacques must begin with the stars,
ears listen to hear as hollow tubes chime,
despite his insistence, Jacques lacks the mind
of a theoretical physicist,
for even a simple scientist knows
light does not bend to the whims of the blind,
if he knew then what he cannot know now,
given he died chasing what we insist
has no value, no one merits but sows
tucking their snouts into troughs of oatmeal,
squared into a corner, far from the plow,
queen to king's bishop eight, farmhands play chess
under the shady elms during their break,
asking nothing but to work for progress,
reasonably touched by a loss, they quake
ever so quietly in their boots, feel
depressed Farmer Jacques sleeps among the reeds.
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