Everyday concocts it’s trials in a hot serving tray from Earth.

Flowers of Tuesday fits this aisle

when the casket holds its sour death.
January comes to mate the hole

and prays for me not to rebirth.

I would believe the sun’s new role

when the casket holds its stench’d breath.
May is a contract signed on stage

like the one Tony sealed with Beth.

It came drowning the fear of age,

until midnight found a new page.
So did August come to wage war

wielding enemies like Macbeth.

It mattered not who had the score

Only the casket held the debt
Did December ever come back?

Cause foreign pain plays the new birth

singing old songs that rocked the park.

I’m only here cause pain said so

righting my wrongs when cocks did crow.

© 2017

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