Will Food

Swerves swear to willfulness,
free stillfulness, a hutch where
whiskers can remember the leap
that bounded them down and 
out and up. Directions are 
miscreants, blue jays cracking
bells against bird feeders,
playing at squirrel. Minutes 
are plentiful, given good clocks,
while stocks are split to argue
in favor of a zero sum day; 
money stalks are cut from 
below trees, they are grown
on the ground, processed
in sound proof rooms, 
given up for dread morsels
masquerading as food.