Accounts Payable

Somebody down there hates us deeply,

Has planted a thorn where slightest woe may overrun.

Disorderly and youthful sorrow, many divots picked at since

Across the thrice-hounded comfort zone.

Can’t cut it, sees permanent crones

Encroaching aside likely lanes of executive tar

All spread skyward.

You got the picture, Bub:

This world is ours no more,

And those other euphemisms for grimly twisting wrath,

A wire-mesh semblance bedecked

With twilight’s steamy regard.

Look at the wind out here.

Delete imperative.

Hours where money rinses life like sex,

Whichever nowadays serves as its signifier.