Tomorrow's For Sale
A tipped bottle on the windowsill
next to the wine cascade,
overlooked by the half --
(empty) – moon.
The cat that painted autumn
upon the trees, forgot me, instead,
green turned straight
into naked bark.
Yet, pleading for prestige is
ironic like a speech made
by a cartoon character.
It must be humoured
like a neon kiss
from a stranger,
and then discarded
with the sketchy magazine.
Hushed away,
with the spilt fruit juices,
mopped up by my
dirty smile
(hidden up my sleeve.)
Usually, I leave
the muddle for the morn’.
But, tomorrow is for sale.
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