Passtime

Passtime

Morning works the day,
Sleeps the afternoon,
Wakes up evening,
Over a cup of wind,
Returns night to bray
Like a curse or boon.

Clumsy little things,
Imagine their wings,
Fly inside the frame,
And take it upon them,
To win the losing game
As donkeys without shame.

The circus of the fate,
Entertains the stage,
The chores are not to change,
The dog and the cat,
Forever fight and date
At the drop of a hat.