We waited, Godot never came,
Time spent did seem absurd,
No song played was ever heard.
There seemed no purpose to life’s game.
What plan, if any, did seem stagnant,
Existence once gave new hope,
Until Godot was at the end of rope.
In life, I grasped only a fragment.
What if there is no lasting plan?
Penelope unwove her work at night,
Waiting for Odysseus, no straw man.
He kills the louts, out of sight,
Righteousness returned by this point man.
Were Godot there, he’s a troglodyte.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.