Hello? Hello? Is This Thing On?

I woke to a brown,
numbing down
rhyme,
that might have been
the song of politicians,
impotent,
a simpering whine
of these and them
and yours and mine,
and how it’s gotta be cleaned up,
made fine,
this time.

I sat up slow,
the promise of progress a low
radio,
rumbling in both ears.
“If it can’t be done now,
then, it will be by next year.
There is nothing, nothing
but a lack of productivity,
to fear. Get yourself
out of that dawdle bed,
dear.”

The bricks, the streets
of Anytown are tired,
worn out as our universe
from speeding things,
moving fast,
bad to worse
and
I am tired, too,
of that do sure confess,
but still
will shake approaching day’s
smiling veil
until illusion spreads tulle,
filters and colours this impossible
mess.