My pain isn’t plain on the pane of the insane.

So perturbed with the absurd I curb the verb.

Stopped in my tracks with tracks on my back

I lickety-split by throwing a fit.

I spout about til I rout the doubt.

I get stuck by luck in the fallout.

Under the bus there’s always a Gus

who guesses my stresses and dresses my messes.

Are you the who who gives a hoot?

Or the pout who gives a shout from the round about?

My back’s bus tracks from the drive-by hacks, now lax.

I rise at sunrise to surmise the prize that denies the lies.

Here goes the rose, the thorn scorned, past mourned,

no longer torn in two but into the view.

I see I’m free to reframe the blame.

Once lame, no more the same, sane in the gain.

Daring to care no longer a scare…