In Her High Room.(Poem)

 
IN HER HIGH ROOM 
 
   In her high room my darling keeps 
      a grand cane chair, 
   and negligently throws or drapes 
      her zebra dresses there. 
 
   But now she's angry with the times, 
      electorates smug as sheep 
   who play too free with clever bombs. 
      She forgoes sleep, 
 
   to work all night on hem and seam, 
      her fingers pull and push. 
   A pin-cushion where her needles gleam 
      is called George Bush. 
 
   While war zones glow with cocksure fire, 
      my darling's thoughts proceed, 
   This epoch's mean as razor wire 
      small as personal greed. 
 
   The dawn comes streaked with persimmon, 
      and still her Singer clatters 
   Her radio crackles updates on 
      unpleasant matters. 
 
   Put voters in a leaky boat 
      and push them out to sea, 
   then watch that smug hip pocket vote 
      on state security. 
 
   The dawn comes lit with coral rifts, 
      dawn-chorus in the park, 
   ...