Poem-A-Day: Day 558

Cycle 16

The whole aim, the whole movement
was a symphony of growing numbers lost;
the numbers cast aside; drunkards’ pleas,
they thank the simple nickel and dimed dropped
at foot into the cup gone from notions
and bumpy blustered wind storming;
a voracious, often vicious viscous vigor
limping dimpled into back seat love and heat.