Year the Longshot Comes Home

a year like a lake you could float on,

looking up at a blue year

Typical old bastard,

The poet, to tell you

The years never turn out

As you’d want, at the same

Time he’s suggesting this

One could be different.

Sometimes hope is the thing

That’s never underneath

The shell that you point to,

But someone will tell you,

For just a buck or two,

You can try this again.

The cat stares out the window

While you negotiate loans.