“By What Sardonic Schedule”
By what sardonic schedule carved does she cast her lot,
Yes, and at what cost, my friend, if on the trail
And in the early and latter oblique years she fails
To see her loyalties in office, the goal at ought,
Reduced to provisos and caveats, hors d’oeuvres
To curb her appetite before the meal? She’ll be there no doubt
Wherein the bull’s eye’s reigns— the stops pulled out—
And high above her saddled ass or horse,
Whichever suits the chorus of nocturnal catalysts who’ll be there
To see the deed, to mark both affirmation in the midnight bridal bower
Equalled, overruled by proxy, negation’s dreams throughout more subtle hours,
The natural conflagration at the dawn of search of some lone soul who cares.
Who worships race and rage to summits far beyond the crowd
Will choose the time and place but overlooks the shroud.