. Milking the System We waited, we have waited, and we wait. Delays continue to increase the cost Of doing business. Every magistrate Can understand the hours and dollars lost But yet cannot, according to the Law, Provide a satisfying remedy. It doesn’t matter what they really saw, Or how reliable their memory, When witnesses without a leg to stand on Are all you have with which to make your case. It’s good to spring surprises you have planned on, If only to recoup and save some face; But better still, if those you fight in court Are more inept at hiding crimes than you Are—that’s just how it goes these days. A tort Is not a piece of cake, but people sue Each other for the flimsiest of causes Because the penalty for doing so is nil No matter what the letter of the Law says About the merits of the case. An ill Wind blows across the land, a noxious breeze That works no good for anyone except Rapacious lawyers who collect their fees From plaintiffs and defendants less adept At feasting on the System. Win or lose, They come out winners in a legal game With rules they feel entitled to abuse As they see fit, pursuant to a name Embossed in gold. If I were in their shoes … I must admit, I’d likely do the same. . . September As the summer slows down to a crawl, When the apples are nearly in season __At the threshold of fall, __It’s foreseeable then __That a rush of unreason Will arise from endorphin-rich brains Of indigenous women and men __Who applaud when it rains. In the meadows they’d mown only once, Where the forbs and perennial grasses __Are the groundwork of hunts __Yet to come, there’s no doubt __All the lads and their lasses Are ecstatic and ready to roll In unharvested hayfields, without __Any aim or control— Though a seasoned partaker might say That composure and caution don’t matter: __At the end of the day, __Whatsoever was planned, __There’s a wind that shall scatter The most carefully husbanded seed Far abroad on this bounteous land, __Irrespective of creed. So lie down in the glistening dew And behold the near reaches of Glory, __For the limitless blue __Is a channel whereby __The continuing story Of affairs that have often recurred Is transported direct from the sky __On the wings of a bird. There are times when the will may forget What the conscience must later remember, __But the deepest regret __Is the failure to live __To the full. It’s September, And October’s no less an event Where there’s nothing for God to forgive __And no need to repent. First published in Blue Unicorn (2014) . . C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Austria, Australia and India. His collection, Mortal Soup and the Blue Yonder was published in 2013 by White Violet Press.