By ANNE BROSSEIT

I wanted to write about shoehorns, and green candles,
And all the other delights of the world.
But war kept coming up.

I walked into the smoky, furnitured room where all
The faces were partying.

And I wanted to shout fantastic things, like
I knew they were really just figments of their

Own imaginations, and oh, you know, things about
Spain and Austria, though I've never been there.
But war kept coming up.

Finally, it got so frustrating, I walked out and I
Went somewhere. I'm not even sure where,
But I left.

And now war
(With myself, you know
Keeps coming up.