A couple jogging in the park
Can't seem to schedule in ***,
They pass the plight
Of an overwhelmed trashcan
With indifference.
Some have too much,
Others not enough.

A young mom
Pushing the pram,
A young snail
Pulling its shell,
A bird on a wire
Watching both intently,
The call of his stomach
Shall prevail.

Love and doubt,
Apathy and duty.
A checklist of options
Lost in the quicksands of time.
Pick one to share,
As if metering off infinity
With a yardstick.
******* the hour.
Confuse the day.
Create exotica by building
Interest in offshore drilling.

The well run dry,
What's left to strike
Rests inside the mind.
The second hand cannot remember why
She must constantly move like a shark,
And so she settles to sleep,
Forgetting who she is.

The couple in the park may run
home to make love in the shower.
The trashcan may finally
Be relieved of its anxiety.
And young mom, snail and bird
May find continued purpose.
But when asked what time it is,
The clocks with amnesia
Will only be able to say,
"I don't know."

I can no longer see past the smoke.
Life is a heartbeat
Inside a cage of fear.
What we don't know is terrifying.
What we do know is even more so.

She came in a thousand unsolved pieces

A myriad of ways to be put back together

But none complete her...

Channel all your pain
to the summoned fields of my sun-baked heart

let me be your long-suffering, xeriscaping soil
--once rain-fed by this love--

now as parched as
Atacama

the plateau where we bowed our heads
and pleaded for mere drops of forgiveness

In theory, the sky is falling,

Showering particles of merry madness and homespun delirium,

As we sleep in the formerly sealed
containers that kept us fresh,

But now leave us active:

Radioactive.

Actually though, this is more a soulless, weather modified masquerade,

Where we dance at funerals, drink to cloud seeding,

And play 'Guess Who?' retributions,

While locked in the closet with flight attendants left for kindling...

1-hour photo lab: an aged prop:
prompt

One hundred years of solitude: glass city:
yellow be their faithful death:
mikado

She prefers another color
for the bedroom wall:
sarcoline

She's in the spotlight
staged like a warm peach:
Non-Euclidean

'Almost a spy--
looking forward to a bright and wonderful future'
--eternally and everlasting:
amaranth

What do you give the person
who thinks they have it all?
Doubt:
that dull brown stocking to wear on his feet

Pilcrow, the Blind P,
once said,

"Allow me, ma'am/sir,
  for it looks like
  you could use a break.
  Besides, Hedera is hard
  and annoying, so full of herself,
  and up to her neck in ivy."

That was a Snark.
But who could tell?
Simply forgot to point it out.
Guess it's better to
leave things unsaid.

In the end
there's only enough
room for the Asterism.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.