I’m so tired of living,

the saying goes,

 

in interesting times,

and the internet

 

agrees, and it’s true:

we (you—yes!—and I)’re

 

both alive, here, near—

possibly, if not quite

 

predictably—the fall

of our imperial dailiness,

 

our lithographed

Cherry Coke Zero-

 

powered feverdream

with a 45/60 commute

 

and no earthly idea

where the banana

 

we’re scarfing down

came from—nor

 

who planted it, nor

what to do with its peel

 

since they don’t want us

trashing the median

 

even though what good

would it do decomposing

 

at the landfill(?)—, our mess

of a troposphere

 

colliding with the historical

emptiness of space, not—

 

certainly not!—

a metaphor for anything

 

but the doomed-to-repeating

et cetera et cetera,

 

but, the answer:

almost never——unless

 

you count the Iliad—

which you shouldn’t,

 

despite the gods’ harsh similarities,

the rage or the woe or

 

the anger or wrath,

the charioteer

 

with his little kilt and cuirass—

no, don’t we all just need

 

a sapling to plant and

a nap with someone

 

cuddly that you met

anywhere but your phone?