It isn't the keys or the bottlecaps
adorned with some image of a deity,  that makes me stumble.

Just this month.
Enough.

I've told you all there is to tell
back in place, the lovers helm,
a sickly visage of diner's guilt.

Just this once.
A front.

It isn't carrying things, or the weight I drag about
it's a wonder wheel of intent and purpose doubt.

you've told all there is to hide
back a step, the liar's guise,
an enfeebled glance that misguides