After February’s scowl and before April’s beckoning,
tight in my own skin and salivating, I snatch
bits and pieces of winter’s curse
to iron over and repackage

a cinema most bizarre, a telling of secrets
I bow to muse and what else haunts and howls
at my id, from dark wings
or, is it indigestion?

Bones creak, my lips are cracked
from mutterings, oh how I envy
the truly mad geniuses
who make it work

it’s the same tripe cooked
in a different pot, a pinch of this
a dash of that and it’s called
a feast

but I have yet to reach the singing crowd
that would herald my words
and write them on
their smiling children’s faces

oh, March you are a screaming harpy,
as well, a muddled clown that mimes simple woes
to a laughing audience and when you reach
your ticking end
I will clap to warmer mornings
and flowing thoughts
that will raise a
goose bump or two.

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