The 25th Hour

When the Sky is falling in,

Like old military hands to

the doomsday tattoo

(or like refuse deserving only of disposal)

And all days grey lighting,

As I rush outside barefoot,

abandoning in the heat of the moment,

My proper shoes at our bedside,

Let all my aspirations, be as well,

My allusions, My apetites,

The neckties i will surely purchase one day soon,

The ridiculous tone of this poem, And desire to be

...ANYTHING...

but your lover.

Then in our final moments together,

you will find my hand free of any pen, or book

and containing only...

your hand.