How predictable that lot stripes
Retreat so soon, a spoken invitation
That phosphoresces as dusk begins
Without which the unspoken lack departs,
A mob of wood like duckpins at the start
Of a short brink. How can it matter?
Cannot a we're-so-much-alike be
Ignored in the perspiration glass
Of a Tamer Lane Moosehead
And also bring down the house?

Avoiding all manner of people and arson
Left behind the drab of the particular fool.
No one told of the unceremonious
Leavings and droppings
After the issue was broached
And it ascends, like their alcohol proof
Of grin, or the timid feathers of
Mallard, or Canadian Ring-Neck geese
Honking in need of birth.