Is it the show I’m reading,
A French drama,
Where a disease is leading to revolution?
Is it the other one I’m reading,
A Spanish drama,
Where the motivations of men are head butting with God?
Is the place where I toil,
A learned institution,
Where decisions about future generations seem to not be made?
Is it my age,
A middling restlessness,
Where decisions about the future cannot yet be enacted?
Is it the lack of daylight,
Early to work, late to home,
Causing this unsettled nature?
Is it the prospect of more meetings,
Stupid time wasting conversations
Causing more inane innovations and interventions?
I’m telling you, it’s all that,
A floating, frustrating sleep robbing feeling.
Can’t summer just return?