I push a penny of a porch railings to feel
it plummet and hear it’s final ping

And push a nickel off at night so I don’t
notice the novel shine as it falls on a
noose

And push a dime only at dusk and
dawn, as not to disturb their daemons,
and as not to degrade their demise

And a quarter at midnight, so it’s
questions and queries with which it
quals can be quietly cast

Then I imagine myself as an inkling,
inching forward with indifference,
inquiring on the irony of indignation if I
insisted on ending it instantly, now