Bartering for more time,
Slow, disgruntled goat
Among the sprinters.

A weeping clock,
In your own time,
To be the last
Creeping wrinkle
Of defeat.

In the scorched land
Of stained notes,
Ragged files,
Bruised finger-tips,
Your aching bones
Limp into
The coffee room,
Listening to your
Taut Monologues of
Sweet revenge
Against the
Arctic wind
Of old age.


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