No one likes to be around a wrestless day.
Not the sycamore tree across the way
who thrashes the rain that won't allay,
flicking leaves into the grey ashtray
of sky seen through my home's archway;
nor the woman who deems her life blasé,
white-knuckling every word she prays
through teeth that mime a donkey's bray;
they both appear to bob and sway
on this blithering blustery wrestless day.
