Milk Sours, Fish Stinks
Dobson rests his elbow on
the desk and thinks
that after three days,
milk sours, fish stinks
and whatever needs to come
to pass, must pass.
Every year that monkey
puzzle increases in size,
dominates his looming prospects,
filling moss skies
in a maze of signed flight
before leaving last.
He is not the only ape
lost there, you may be sure,
but are they conscious that they're looking for
passage to passing places
and a last knocked door?
Years of knees chattering to weakening limbs,
infirm hearts and sucking love's blood to bring
him only fat Jimmy five bellies and ten double chins.
And these monkey puzzles high above
Dobson gloat,
they're dressing up conundrums in impenetrable
coats,
eight weeks past and nothing of
consequence spoke,
milk sours, fish stinks, crumbled ash to stir and poke.
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