drinks fall
to planned obsolescence
and my sturdy jawed boss
replaces my broken hand
with one filled with beer --
this continues for some time
and some time
until the Earth passes through
a patch in the universe
close to time’s childhood
and time decides to leave the bar
where he goes
only nobody can speculate
as I am left here to apologize
for speculating on time’s gender
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- Slugtrail Slime
- This is a place to track my slow progress as a poet and thinker. I figure here is a better home for them than in a rundown documents folder. Please comment and critique as I am not yet William Carlos Williams or Emily Dickinson.
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