Long muscles, long burr,
ground into the sock
prickling into the foot
twelve cinches sans time.
How much more rain
on this caffeine parade
before the cool draft
smells like football
and money. Oh culture,
can you keep the hours
out of the ethics jar
and your hands
in the clock? I don't trust
you as far as I can grow
you. There's a conflagration
and it's second person dinner
for penalty, for pay,
for a mudslide without
an ocean of splay. Lend
me your cranberries
and may we be some where
before we end out
some when.
Roman Ryan 