You wonder how to get there
despite your circumstances.
Yet nobody gets anywhere, except
by spiting the circumstances,
which, after all, can only
circum stand.
Circumstances are to opportunity
as walls are to a door.
Look not to walls,
but to ways.
"Are we there yet?" comes the plaint
from the kids in their back seat.
"This is boring," they proclaim.
"Just be patient," we entreat.
But are we not just like them,
ever wanting time jam-packed?
Do our waiting hours condemn
us to feeling out of whack?
I've a thought or two on how
we can overcome this plight.
Wipe the furrows from your brow
and I'll tell you what I might.
But not now.
You'll have to wait for it.
A Middle Ages fantasy,
with dragons, kings and queens,
with magic and with alchemy,
and death in every scene,
has just begun its season eight,
the final one, they say.
The breathless viewers just can't wait
to see who dies today.
And yet I wonder who they be
who watch with rapt delight,
for just as far as eye can see,
a billion soldiers fight.
Who, then, is left to watch the show?
Can someone clarify?
But one thing true I surely know:
It usually won't be I.
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