Poem: The Future

A space covered by innocent rhythms
Need calls blood, beating so strong
that my heart feels like it will break free
and run away from the possibilities.

I tell you that if I won 47 million dollars
Global warming would still eat New Orleans,
faraway children would still die of hunger,
my hands would be weak and shaking.

What is in the mind of a man? When
the woods are quiet, he closes his eyes,
and the morning goes on. He is powerless
as the future drums softly around him.