The Peaceable Kingdom

After the Age of Anxiety,
the Age of Capitulation:
the Sundays of public piety,
the weekdays of mild sedation;
the grading system rescaled
so that all of the pupils pass,
and even the ones who failed
keep up with the rest of the class.
Breast-fed, untrained to the toilet,
the infant lisps our creed:
“It works. Watch out or you’ll spoil it.
They love it. What more do you need?
Aspire to what you’ve got,
and settle for what you get.
Come as you are. Do not
yearn to be better-yet.”

After the Age of Torment,
the season of snap, pop, crackle,
when shame and remorse lie dormant
and the adder curls up with the jackal,
and the culpable ideal
is finally put in its place.
Then painless the loss of will,
weightless the fall from grace.
And though all of the milk is spilt,
only the baby cries;
while out of the jungle of guilt
the reconciled arise
to dance with the company’s clients
and putt on the president’s greens
in the sunlight of social science,
while the ends make a meal of the means.