I sing a song of meetings,
Of meetings held to plan future meetings,
And meetings to discuss the failure of earlier meetings,
Of meetings to counter the dark consequences of enemy meetings,
And meetings to commemorate the uncounted meetings we have
been strong enough to attend.

I sing a song of meetings,
Of explanations that start with creation,
And interruptions fueled by indignation,
Of agendas stretched and padded,
Confusions enjoyed and added,
And climactic declarations denouncing those so weak
as not stick it out to the end.

I sing a song of meetings,
Of the need for further clarification
If we are to avoid the world’s termination,
Of passionate denunciation
And all but outrageous accusation
–by people unimpeachable in goodness.

I sing a song of meetings,
Declaring factions to end the blight of faction
And endless speeches on the need for action,
Abrupt insistence on calling the question,
Speakers begging for a two-minute extension,
And mortals made of common clay, fading flesh,
who marvel at their own endurance.

We stare suspiciously, sniffing old odors. We
know where we have met, we
Who are survivors. A wince, a tremor, see
the marks of finger, foot, and knee
That speak of meetings gone and failed. As for me
I cannot look them in the eye, these aging children
of meetings.

- - -

From: Irving Howe, A Margin of Hope: An Intellectual Autobiography (New York: Harcourt, Brace, Jovanovich, 1982), 343-344.