The mad November rain
As dizzy as the days ahead of us
How can we confess to nothing
And own our mistrust of the morning
Our comfort is our coffee
Forecasting tomorrow’s meridians
We are abbreviated dictionaries
Silenced before the skies
Of never-ending opinions
We are the unstrung troubadour
Mourning all his categories
Lies are told endlessly
Begging questions and memories
More often than is really necessary