On Tuesdays Walton is aware
of Wednesday morning's meeting;
on Wednesdays he remembers that
his Thursday will be fleeting.
And so he goes, from day to day,
poor Walton running here and there,
half-stopping to half-start and say
a thing quite empty in the air.
And his steps are made by clocks
and timetables and Others,
and his holes are filled with socks
and where oh where are mothers?
They told him that the jungled lands
were broken down and beaten,
they told him that if he did right
he'd be alive, not eaten.