The Necessity of Agriculture

A plot, or lot, of clod
Called origin
Because of phonetics
Like rhymes reminding
When within a crowd of locals
Suddenly I overhear
Through all the voices’ surpriseless noises
People talking mother tongue
Mere bits and chops but sense enough
To have my feet once again
Clogged in Ur-clod.

How can one percent of clustered plosives
Affect an uprooted soul not even missing its soil?
The eye is watchful and often shrewd
Whereas the ear is an emotional sap
My eye a city slicker, my ear a hayseed
Should rely on the optics and not trust hearsay;
Truth is that I’ve grown lids but no natural earflaps
Can always do without wit but need grub, and
All that progresses blessedly regresses
By dint of moral aural nourishment.
Oughtn’t be in endless limbo.

January 8, 2012