A patterned discussion at halftime
Season these holidays
Young kids learning pasts, Rymes.
There’s no room for idle chit chat
Or pauses in conversation
No place for mediocre spat
Depressing words. Deviations.
Alcohol has formed more prose
Than poets in consternation
Every brick has its rose
Each poem its nonsense stations
I hold a stone, to you it’s a throne
To me it’s a tome and to her