Month me.
I'm thirty out of date.
A thirst for weeks
has wrecked my sneaks
in the fingers of fate.
My moths have eaten
all my clothes
and my clothes have beaten
all my cloths.
There can be no wash
in the deserted flat.
Salt, though,
wounds the pepper heart.
Until the year's up
and down and down
like a coiled stake
through the tart cherry breeze.
Weather, then,
whether ore be got
or stores be lots
the parkers will be sure
to monopoly
and string up flights
so that consumption can match
the expectations of the well-invested.
Roman Ryan 