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.