April showers, how repentant. As if I eluded February…to stay in such a bogus fight.
How dare my carriage be discovered so lusterless with such spite.
Gregarious women warriors did not sit pantry-side…deliberating yeast for might.
No fireside banter…wronged versus right.
No paragon in which to huddle.
For the many, the cosmopolitan, visibility a squeamish black hole.
Their consumption’s a salty wine from abiding the fold.
Who will douse the sweat from my brow…as I, grow old?