They say I have retro appeal; closer inspection reveals the error:
a tornado becomes a mouse via transcendental dentistry.
It flew from the fight into the plot of a life in miniature. They say
that's not the worst of it, that I've never scratched myself
where it mattered, nor found a bargain in a star field.
I'm not one to argue semantics, as thankless weather
puts us in our place, the classroom where we sleep
through a groping for grace that will never be ours but is
a welcome product rollout under the aegis of a cosmic wail
too remote, too haplessly devoid of mirth to take seriously.
Just pop the top and enjoy! Does this nostalgic pandemic
age with us or against us, our story unceremoniously
dumped out like light across an empty stage? At all events
your smile debunks most transportation options;
I sense an old bromide coming on, spinning true.
So there's that, at least, and a lot of lovely bitterness besides.