routine as morning rooster's call,
death stares us down unblinkingly,
with the faint sting of alcohol.

without much willingness to brawl,
virility, agility,
or much of anything at all,

how could we be bound by thrall?
how far goes durability?
where has it gone, our wherewithal?

forgetful trees lose leaves in fall -
our lovers leave consistently,
routine as morning rooster's call.