Reflections on George Saunders’ Award

Improvidence is all that smiles on me
And then it’s just a Cheshire smile at best
It’s seven years since I was thirty-three
And seven more, at least, before I’m blessed
Or maybe I’m the one in bad decline
I’m not the one emerging from a tomb
Five hundred thousand dollars could be mine
If I could coax my verses to subsume
Improvidence, and make it reappear
As if it were a savior or a ghost
I wonder then if anyone would hear
My little songs, the ones I sing the most
I doubt it as I turn a shade of green
And fade into another mundane scene

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