November: Creative Platypus

November

These are the days when I feel
It would not be sad to die;
My hopes and dreams add up
To so little.

Does life go on there
In cities under grey skies?
In places I know not?
Tell me all your ways and stories:
Men in heavy coats and caps,
Coffee held in hands wrapped in finger-less gloves,
Who breathe the air in plumes of smoke.
I dreamt I wandered through the cities of the North
And loved them.
Their seasons' beauties were beautiful to me
Who knows only hot and hotter.

If you care to know, here is the thing that
I am saying:
Can our sorrows be sharpened to a sweetness
and what Kassandra said come true?

What is the weight, then, of one dead Irishman
In a world that belongs to Swedes and Anglos?
We died in droves an no one noticed except
To hang signs saying "No Irish need apply".
(God make us kind to Mexicans!)
Can I reach across the ages and make meaning
From their deaths?

The only thing that matters here is service
And the Iliad of our own sinfulness
(though that word's gone out of fashion).
So we'll keep fighting on for justice until
We're slain.