stately waltzes through glitzy show-room doors

key masquarades behind needle and haystack smiles

"don't cry mother...no, no...don't...

"you know I hate it when you cry...

jazz beats and shady deals,

friends peer at you with unkind smiles

"we want to help...

'help, help...' you stammer and hammer another one down.

help is right mister slew foot, mister part-time

mister seasons to lay off

and seasons of gloom flourish,

it never was a pretty business

nor went for want of help or calling,

"fantastic strawberry pie she makes," he said, pausing locquaciously, thinking behind a grim undertaker smile,

I mean, smell, grim undertaker smell, "made, I mean made, I buried her last week." 

sanitation workers with glorified jobs, mister peace bargain racket.

rushing forth with passion cheeks, red and flushed,

impasssioned with a smile,

or a frown, trying desperately not to feel,

not to think, not to feel the life run riot roughshod

over the earth,

over you, mister last second shot,

mister three downs and out,

how many sunsets did you see this time.

Frozen, in casual slung seat,

seeing the storms push up against the continental divide,

trying to make the final surge over the crest

and fail.

"Come here often?"  the part time says.

"Only since my daddy killed me," she says with a hint of a smile.