The Man of Modern Sensibilities¹
In Imitation of T. S. Eliot

Who is this man? whose life is encumbered
With discounted objects and unceasing projects
Purchased on holiday (never a Holy Day)—
Adrift in a slumber, whose days are yet numbered.

Who is this man? "O’ come, let us reason"
Saith the Lord of convenience, the god of four seasons.
Is he wise and sagacious? Or yet sentient?
A nebulous potion, opaque sediment?
Of atoms and quarks of fortuitous fame:
Evolution's blind struggle, a gratuitous game.

Who is this man? if naught but silly
A ninny, inane as he moves with his flocks
Of silicon smart phones and polymer crocs
In self-driving cars that careen and career

“Have no fear, O’ man! Come let us seek
Utopia’s doorstep,” grimaced the black beast.

Who is this man? Who knocks not on the door
Of heaven, its gates, its wall, nor its floor.
Whose aversion to pain and addiction to pleasure,
Make’s life a dole bore, full of golfing and leisure.

Who is this man? No longer political
A monad of freedom, no longer hospitable
Decrying injunction devoid of all function
Dare he to make unction and atone?
Or better yet, pick up the telephone.

A gambler when his money is spent;
A soldier whose lost his regiment;
An orphaned baby who’s now forlorn;
A pilgrim dejected without any home.

Who is this man? Round and supine
Blathering something asinine
A life insipid, surfeit of futility:
Behold! The man of modern sensibility.

1. Featured Image: Arthur Caddy suspect photograph from 1929. Crime unknown: NSW Police Forensic Photography Archive, Sydney Living Museums) ↩︎