(20 minute poetry)

Getting off on the wrong foot wearing odd socks and this is what knocks me for a six.

Can't concentrate in this narrow strait, too much shipping, feels like it's slipping away.

Only the coffee is hot today.

I cooled in the breeze of a Southern night to wake in the morning
cold and goose bumped

No cats on this tin roof.

It sorts itself out and I do too
on the wharf where the stevedores sing.

Plimsoll lines are fine if you're not wearing them, I wore
tropical palms and drank coconut milk for tea.

amusing myself by abusing the truth

no cats on this tin roof.

Informally normally but not always so  or so the thesaurus informs me and though centrally located I relate to the suburbs.

They call this the bullet as it pulls through the tunnels under the streets where you walk,
but they talk some **** don't they?

if it meant we could fly we would,
most hit the pavement wondering why
there are no cats on the tin roof

truth hurts more at thirty two feet per second per second.