Eschatology of the Lexicon Poem by Jill Allyn Rosser

They come down to us
rounding the corners of centuries
at an innocent jog, shedding letters
and most of the grand old meanings
to take on the sleek new hide
our day demands, a snappier
nap that can repel the stare
of a rather less tactful sun;

they come down to us com-
pounding, bounding in idiot
joy, they come with that trustful
tired old mutt look, that soft woof,
warm doggie sigh on the knee,
hoping for what? Some reason,
no doubt, to continue sounding.
Give me one good reason,

they come down to us saying,
as if we could have one without them.