On Anticipating the First Day of Class (August 13, 2018)

The day before D-Day was like a weight,

A hundred pounds pressing downward, two tons

For each platoon of infantry.   A crate

Of books weighs less, two stones perhaps, and sons

Won't die from lifting books.  Time is fleeting

When times are out of joint.  But clocks spin slow

In the tediousness of peace.  Meeting

A deadline is not like meeting a foe,

And a classroom is not a trench.  We fight

A quieter fight now, paper battle

To stem the tide of ignorance, the night

Of civilization's last death rattle.

"Oh, get over yourself," your wife will say.

"The first day of class is not like D-Day."

On Not Wanting to Write My Last Brief (August 2, 2018)

A week away from work makes people weep

For joy; two weeks will make them run so mad,

They'll beg to work again.  Warm nights they sleep

Beneath a sheet of silk, like old Sinbad,

Luxuriant, a prince among the sheikhs

Of Araby.  Cold nights they sleep in spoons,

Him front to back, her back to front; bed creaks,

Wind howls; and then they dream of other moons,

The yellow moon in desert skies, afloat

In blackest night.  But in the day they toil

From dawn to dusk, though none might think to note

The blood and sweat and tears they spend.  To boil

It down: we live in dreams, and once awake

We die in dread of these the lives we make.