Trevor Mcleod Poet Quatrain

Shove

There's nothing like a pressured toot
to get you out of bed.
The moving sheets, the rustled beat;
of flatulance ahead.

That very sign that life goes on
despite the time you have.
Where waiting on the sun to shine
might mean a death through calve.

And hope is an illusion
of a sleep that's pulled you in.
When your luck means live or die
to a death that's judged your sin.

And you wake with expectations
of a world that's going to love
as you move about your business
in the manner yours will shove.

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