The slow turning of this world makes us all grow sick.
We spun quickly in childhood, strands of spaghetti
flung out like arms. We whirled as we ate up life.
Either the spinning or the eating made us sick
and though we stopped, the world taunts us with its spinning,
as if years ago a cat knocked a ball of yarn
down a hill. Most of the yarn is gone but it still
tumbles on. Entropy can’t be stopped.
Even now, in its old age, it’s faster than us all.
I saw an old man caught off guard by entropy’s
ambush. Leather shoes thrown on under plaid sweatpants,
sun hat tied tightly under his chin, he strode on
despite the earth which spun to trip him up, and cars
which tumbled by at the behest of gravity.
He marched to war, plunger tipped like a gun at rest.
He went, despite his age, to stem the spinning flood.