Wednesday, November 7, 2018

seven weekends past their prime

Did they plan to commit a mortal 
sin of calamitous crime? Or were 
they mere shenanigans that, 
seven weekends past their prime,
began devolving irredeemably 
into unpalatable slime, resolving 
then before they were themselves
disposed of to collude and frolic in 
and bollix up and spoil the arrival 
(and most probably survival) 
of some unsuspecting dummy
who had brung his hungry tummy
to be fed. Balsamic vinegar and
olive oil waiting waiting waiting for
somebody’s final piece of bread.
Soon we’ll all be dead, they said.

No comments: