Life is a prompt

The way it gets you up in the morning,

and slaps you across your left 

dream, the one about the poem 

resting in the veins of a burnt orange leaf 

that’s about to fall

in love with the cold as

If the cold was a thing like Moose 

Tracks ice cream and a pumpkin 

you forgot to carve 

out time for winter tires, 

as if time is a thing 

to be carved into a Rodin 

placed pompously on your 

front lawn because you can’t afford

The Thinker, I mean who can afford

to think these days.