The sky falls
on everyone eventually.
Bird lands between cat's teeth,
and there is nothing for it.
Wings lacking tenacity
and life flight urgency.
But what is our excuse?
We who war over the nature
of right thinking and sanity,
or insanity, and how it moves
through shadows and sticks like a web...
Sleep--the elusive mistress we crave
over all percussive instruments.
Eventually this mortal coil must shift to pause--
Its tune-ups are more persistent,
prevalent as daily mail.
Send me a better letter.
Return this pale elemental
envelope filled with unrechargable
batteries and miscellaneous bric-a-brac.
Ship me a Ginsu to cut
through an old macabre melody
stuck in a worn vinyl groove.
And don't forget the warranty,
the extension, the last chance
donation to a First World disaster,
First Class.
