cmbailey@jps.net 

Theorist in Armchair

The theorist in armchair
Realm confined to his room 
A corkscrew-shaped mind
At once tomb and womb 

Highly intelligent, to be sure
But real life has him mystified
Cogitating subjects near and dear
Contributions therefore nullified 

Madman hunts down answers
Depression that never leaves
Collecting facts like figurines
Dreams he never achieves 

Scraping by on welfare
In this filthy airless studio
His high tech intercourse
Witnessed by the screens green glow

What of love and human touch?
Impossible now to imagine
Homo jungle too deep to cleave
Loneliness robed as religion

And those who tried to help
Have long ceased to care
Tongues no longer cluck
At the Theorist in armchair

© Copyright 1999, Connie Bailey.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.