The lot

I guess that’s it–that’s

the lot that comes to us;

that’s the crazy haze of living

and breathing through

smiles and tears and fears

that hang on like barnacles

on a hull left to rot and

rust in its shallow water grave.


That’s the lot and we the brave

want more like in Oliver’s Twist;

we may want more but this

plate is all there is and when

it’s cleaned the circle ends.


That’s the lot–the circle ends!

The lot–for this is it

and memory is all that’s left.


This is it.