Jon Fisher | CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

Position Paper

Now where do I stand
With all my demands
Still unstated, will deflated,
My hat in my hand
— Am I still feted?
— Or hated, fated
to roam the land, love unsated?
— Or should I grandstand
Again, blandished by the strains
Of that unseen, inner band: drain
To the last grain (in unreined vein
This time) the sprinting sands
Of time: stop the hands’ reign
Here and now, on the beckoning strand.