Ireland's OWN Poetry and Prose

Creatures of our Time
—by Gardiner M. Weir

There is just the maker’s name
on the side of my autumnal centrifuge.
I listen to its strong un-summered heart
beating in the tinkling silence of the lab.

Somewhere off a jazz band plays.
Their music is remote and unaware.
My mind plods on
seeking the arbitrary truth
of all the various multiform existence,
the music and the sad silent autumn
of this laboratory life.

I find no answer.
Only the centrifuge;
on its side its maker’s name.
We are lost you and I,
sediment, unclassified,
creatures of our time.

Copyright © 2006 Gardiner M. Weir