dosing out daily

 
these are the days of the slow pet pup   
and the rocked to sleep baby   
the jetpack needs a tuneup   
but is still kept running in the closet   
 
saturday mornings exist in a space   
where its language lives off the grid   
 
there is no more memory of the wars   
they've become as hollowed 
as the echo off dishonesty   
and the artist's studio has finally gone dark   
when midnight oil spins in the mud of overuse   
while the lovely ladies in hand woven linens   
still twirl dizzy into dandelions on hillsides   

but they are for the leap of the newest fools   
 
the old ones died in the density of friday  
and no ones left to ruin our mornings with words