OCD

The learned men call it all a true

Emergency, the summer's long,

Tireless drought. And I walk through

The public park breaking the thong

Of my flip flop, limping in strong

Heat while the proletariat

Of honey-suckle limps along.

Quod me nutrit me destruit.

When Death strolls past, what will they do,

The pussy-willows in the throng

Of goldenrod turned brown, but cue

The organ, its sepulchral song

In desiccating sun, belong

To soil which can again be fit?

The bell will toll—one loud ding-dong.

Quod me nutrit me destruit.

Deep in the trees, two schoolboys chew

Clover and toss their homemade bong

Inside a bag when I step through

The bush. The smell of smoke hangs strong.

They stay with me, wading the long

Path of the littered rivulet.

Without a clue, they nod along.

Quod me nutrit me destruit.

I always know where I belong.

Lock all the gates. I'm desperate

To hear birds sing my constant song

Quod me nutrit me destruit.