The flame of the flint
of the steel-eyed jack grinning

Circle the ring
of never beginning

The withering hours
with their rusted confessions

Turn idol to idle
in endless concessions

The stanzas lie strangled
in three-quarter rhythm

The pen pens disguises
of excuses as reason

The brush brushes off
the hard work of being

The arc of the enterprise
endlessly leaving

I look past the glass
to see more clearly my penance

The clock waves goodbye,
or is it merely good riddance?