Temptresses her way into the yin
Grey suits with gold bows,
My temp dresses.
The world passes her,
On a wallowing wheelchair
Turning open paved paths,
Into impasses.
Hassles of a quiet mind,
Frequent floods and draughts,
Yank its way from latter letter,
Features of a watering hole.
Shallow afternoons of this wintery weather,
Hanging my coats and hat to a little too left,
Balance is an afterthought.
