Schlaraffenland

Every morning I gaze at it,
The colorful map I've bleached and tinted
With denim shades of indigo.
And as I work--as I open a window,
Occlude a nation, and with a mouse-tap
Blot out cities with my files--
I can't restrain my eye from wandering
Along a river, the Schweis, or maybe
The Gnaden or the Adamsfall.
Should I skip down the road from Mutterstatt
To Erwehle in the Kingdom of Youth,
Or laze for diabolical days
On the emerald sands of Seduction's port,
Then take the ferry to Butterbrod,
And explore the sordid corners of Fleisch?
O allegorical Land of Cockaigne,
I want to break through the scrim of my screen,
Inflate your flatness to three dimensions,
Retire where day-to-day life is perfect
Before I'm lame, before I go dotty
And wind up in some hospice hole.
Already I've gone from long-stemmed strides
To soft-shoe shuffles,
And many a wrack-jolt lies ahead.
They say it's a legend, that half-awake haven,
Impossible place, awash in milk
And ale and honey,
Where everyone's happy and no one ails . . .
But aren't I too old to be chasing grails?