it’s good to have a job
and to drink hard cider
on the weekends and fart

in my own good time;
perhaps i don’t have my
own time, though; it seems

so, these days through which
i live, each day a birth
day, however bound or

parsed, entered in a spread
sheet. yes, even the week-
ends, and a post card with

a white rabbit glares out
over the laptop, big black
hollow eyes, no timepiece;

just a question, in passing.