O Lord

I'm the bird at the window

mocked by reflection

my beak on the glass

trying to tap in.

O Lord

I'm the very last telegraphist

in the very last post-office

my finger on obsolescence

trying to tap in.

O Lord

I'm the paradigm Canadian

with an acre of dead maples

my drill in their dry trunks

trying to tap in.

O Lord

I'm the Arab oil barren

abandoned by thirty wives

my pump in the empty earth

trying to tap in.

Nothing happens

all this tapping

all this tapping

Nothing happens

just a little

surface noise.