“Swan’s Lake (A Child’s Sorrow is Time)"

A woman from Oklahoma, engaged in

a banally depressing monologue, in between

an empty drone and a hollow shout assumed

the poise of a sixth grade teacher while

resting the viola in her lap and, arrogant:

“You, what is a child’s sorrow? You are

meant to provide questions not answers, but

Let them all know - a child’s sorrow is time.”

I beg to disagree: A child’s sorrow is a

swan’s lake. As he grows older

willow branches will wither in scum,

discarded needles will threaten every step,

his lake will turn into a cement swamp;

finally, driven by fury, he will butcher

the swan and find out it was just

a pillow of second-rate goose feathers

all along.

Maybe, after all, a child’s sorrow

is

time.