adventures in dysthymia

Saturday, April 13, 2013

Regret, a poem


Regret nothing —
if one thing hadn’t happened
another would have
and maybe it did.

We are all in that box
with Schrodinger’s furry feline.
Or is it hairless?
I’ve sought to amaze you

but instead I amuse you.
That’s not to regret, either,
when I count up my days
and find one missing.

I’m sure I put it
on the counter to ripen.
Must be those mice.
They’ll regret it.

Stephen Brooke ©2013

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