Is this uncouth child frowning in timeout
because he tried to break my thumb–no lie–
in the mafia? There is little doubt
that he’s two months shy of five–no jive.
My sobriety is begging me–just
one little toke turns this into a joke.
My glow is dimmed. This winter hymn’s a dirge
mourning the bitter dark as shadows surge.
I’m on the verge. Portals emerge. What’s true
is far beyond my view. I sit and stew
until a pause for breath. Celebrate death.
The world’s askew. Release old. Welcome new.