KS Culbreth

The Critic

I am the selfsame critic
of the whores of mock change and new creeds
that claim through song and prose
to weed us of worms
ward away consumptive disease;

yet I await with foul dread
amid the beauty you hold dear;
of your escapes and your duty
from the corner of my eye
I judge your furtive deeds

In that most silent, reflective trance
our gaze will meet as in the train’s
bright lamp, no chance to weep;
nor would you crave the chance
fixed as you are on mock change.