Cramming little boondoggles along long ladden trails makes missing pain and loss a love; makes it a lot like other efforts pretend to  matter because if the potato fields thought they didn't matter, we would rather have a foxhole shell be a dud, that
Auntie Helper revive a dud.
Wet fire responds with "Thud"
Our life fire lives in mud.

A mud of fear and hate,
with a net that cannot shelter.
Abated by billions sounds great, unless you cannot eat.
Auntie helper puts them to bed.
But, her machines can't cloth you. Nor make socks to clothe your feet.

Cold.
Uncle helper reminds they're not dead.

One time.. I helped my uncle build a bed-shaped casket made for the dead.


Reading red as luck of fortune only made me much more mad.

Because, I bet (even though I'm reckless)


I am not the only one with a

mom

and

dad.