A child’s cry out in the street, not of pain or fear,

rather one of those vividly inarticulate

yet perfectly expressive trumpet thumps of indignation:

something wished for has been denied,

something wanted now delayed.

So useful it would be to carry that preemptive howl

always with you; all the functions it performs,

its equivalents in words are so unwieldy,

take up so much emotive time,

entail such muffling, qualifying, attenuation.

And in our cries out to the cosmos, our exasperation

with imperfection, our theodicies, betrayed ideals:

to keep that rocky core of rage within one’s rage

with which to blame, confront, accuse, bewail

all that needs retaliation for our absurdly thwarted wants.