Fluff and clouds, drifting, cross the sky.
Birds play hide-and-seek in cotton-candy and whisps of fog,
Their mothers call them home to feathers and nests,
As sunshine and day retreat –
and mine calls me to feathers and bed.
He is a little so-and-so, and so
Will not amount to much, too much
Snark, no wit at all. A tall
and witless wonder, wondering
wondering, full of wonder, wondering:
Why does no one like him? Like him?
Why should they, after all – after all he’s
left unsaid, undone? And done
we are, at last, we’re done.