Trouble - Poem by Morgan Michaels
Once my sky was trouble-free-
not a clouded birthing bed
of woe, cycling overhead
one, two then three and fourscore-fold.
Poverty the soonest to roost
then the Dwindle, Profligacy's dividend;
then Purpose is lost, then Friends
who laugh a spell and drift off
and share the time no more;
then better-dead Dementia, at end;
for when Troubles come they come in flocks-
dirty birds of a feather
that never flap away
but dimming the sun, nombrous they come
in droves, hot to flock, hoot,
swoop low, graze our faces
shriek, beat wings,
clack beaks and say
'you thought to shake us, sorry, pal, no way,
we like it here to stay.
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