Sick of bicentennial

Two hundred years
Seven hundred years
What difference does it make?

As always we clamour
to feel important
Impotent as we are,
making up myths of lions and fish,
a rock now adds to our history.
We fashion it from clay.
Yet
we are nothing
but a grain of sand
under a heaving ocean.
A blimp in time
drawing people to it
to make a home
a stepping stone.
A navel full of people gazing inwards
Saying
I am big
I am old.
I matter
I do

protest too much

This is home
that teaches one to be zen
amid a sea of toys.
Tall buildings and short tunnels
squash our heritage.

Bear no attachment
for places morph
Sinews stretch fold unfold into time
We will be swallowed whole
before we can matter.