There is exactitude
and certitude

no matter what
the returns of the day

corrosion festers,
the depression spikes,
like a fever that is
drug resistant

the consumption residue,
white ash, black trimmed
festoons my innards,
dresses up my facade

vacuous and vacant
are the vagaries
that only flow, never ebb,
jubilant light effaced

my countenance equanimous,
my demeanor unmeaned,
but but but but but
nothing but but but

t'is not but the mood of the moment
t'is the chronic the endemic
there is an exacting certitude
this is the underground stream
the runs my poetry down