Oh dear

How many times these days I say those words, Muttering them quietly under my breath Or petulantly as the telephone rings Or shocked at some reported piece of news Or simply as a constant formula For things that pass by daily, and are gone Into the nowhere that life seems to be Day after day, as if unceasingly. Too soft to be an expletive, too repetitive To have distinction, more sigh than cry of rage, How many times these days I say those words And may well say them till the day I die When everything’s worn out and stiff with age And I have nothing else to say but ‘Why?’