sketch a likeness
with a dull pencil
on an old brown bag
of a balding severed head
embedded in cement
with only the crown of the skull exposed
walked upon
but not noticed

tack this likeness to a trunk
in a grove of scrub trees
in a mid-western state
on a drizzly day
and walk away
don't worry,
no one will even notice

november comes around like a carousel
one not with pretty horses
but with haunting spirits
calling me to come and ride

i turn away
but the music draws me in
it's the same every year

days grow shorter
some days the sun never shines
lifelessness is my midday
eternity is my night

every year the road is a little more rutted
the wayside overgrown
spring is months away and the life it brings
throws not a line for me