I should be thinking of a lot of things:
The reason people play the piccolo.
How high is up? What happens if I fall
when I’m already fallen on the ground?
Or why is Carmen San Diego lost?
And figgy pudding! Why would anyone
consider figgy pudding? After all
it’s something after Dickens, isn’t it?
Or thinking, circumspectly, “What the fig?”
It isn’t like there’s any reason to
have thought about a lot of things except
consider the alternatives. If I
would think about the problems of the world
I soon would be a lunatic. I’d scream
about polluters; rave about the rot
infecting politicians. Rail about
iniquities while knowing I’m to blame
as much as anyone. And so, instead
I choose some other things to think about
like growing figs for making fig-leaf tea
instead of growing figs for eating figs;
or worrying about my driveway cracks
and do they mean an earthquake’s coming soon;
or there’s another Popocatepetl
that will cover up my house and home.