Hope is a pretty,
useless thing–
an ornament to hang,
a slender neck
in a beautiful noose,
a coin in your pocket
you cannot spend
since no one will take it
Hope lives in a place
we cannot reach
but men do try
to touch its wings
and pray for strength
when there is plenty
here below
Hope is a quiet song
which is always sung alone–
it conjures ghosts,
it wastes long hours
painting forms
it cannot see
Hope is a lazy worker–
it can bring no bricks,
it can move no stones,
always whistling Dixie
in a clutch
Hope is a fool’s experiment–
it doesn’t ever learn
to make decisions
or to choose things well
Hope is a dainty,
fruitless thing–
a bauble
Hope itself is the reason
I have none
Hope is a tantalizing liar