Black hole sun spins
out of control, so much
so that I get up and go,
walk out, not into an
apocalyptic vortex,
but a gorgeous mid-
spring afternoon.
Sometimes it’s
hard not to be in love
during a pandemic
(he checks his watch)
on a Thursday or a
Saturday (he’s sure
of it!) or a...Thursday.
The Great White North’s
got a coin with the face
of a queen who’s not
really a queen but a pagan
trifecta nonetheless.
Some have taken to
spitting on her face,
invective to what’s
been told’ll cure
the world’s malaise.
One can never be sure which
side of the brook these codgers’
tales got spun, but no matter.
Here we are now at the
very tail end of a horse
of another name only
to be found blinking blankly
at each low-life pedestrian’s
cure. But what’ll sure cure
the face of Mary of the Patty
of a horse? Well of course
Mary’s no dummy like
the faces of the codgers
of many a brook. She turns
to the Tin Man for a bit of
his Orl. He stares back
with the constipated
face of an eloquently
august dummy.
