Noon had barely finished his circuit
when I engaged the Sun in conversation,
wondering if her healing rays were a golden ode to pain?

Abruptly interrupted;
shirts' silk thread dripping displeasure,
at the sudden moistness of its condition.

In return and in much the same verbal position,
I chided this thread,
intoxicated with sticky saline libation,
much less for the distraction
as opposed to the - parley intrusion,

citing;

“My dear shirt it’s impolite to gravitate beyond one's social inclusion”

Instinctively,
back and fingers joined this spoken foray
distancing themselves in unison
from the sozzled garments' argument.

Arching and pulling away,
his company no longer entreated,
whatever beauty he had,
now lost,
in his present
dis - position.

In agreement and sunshine unabating,
I attempted to continue our once lovely conversation.
But she;
her glow unwaning,
had moved on,
no longer finding such small talk entertaining.



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