Be a lone dog
Little brother
And paddle
Down the crowded street
With sleet in your eye
Killing all the Fathers
With your cigarette.
In the lobbies
And elevators
Be a cloud of hailstones
A visible episode
Or a migrant flame
Feeding on nothing
An anti-prophet
A dry homeless tree
With a knife in your side
And many skinny years to die in
As a life member of the unemployed.
(Thomas Merton, To Sons: Not to Be Numb)
