Ennui

Tea leaves thwart those who court catastrophe,
designing futures where
nothing will occur:
cross the gypsy’s palm and yawning she
will still
predict no perils left to conquer.
Jeopardy is jejune now: naïve knight
finds ogres out-of-date and dragons unheard
of, while blasé princesses
indict
tilts at terror as downright absurd.

The beast in Jamesian
grove will never jump,
compelling hero’s dull career to crisis;
and when
insouciant angels play God’s trump,
while bored arena crowds for once look
eager,
hoping toward havoc, neither pleas nor prizes
shall coax from
doom’s blank door lady or tiger.

Sylvia Plath