Plumes In Rooms Poem by John Weber

Counting hours like chickens
          waiting to get fried
until my last pressures get
          properly denied
by that amnestic ruckus
          compelling my stride.

My revelry extracts your
          most suspicious eye
while I collect brains like I'm
          Professor Magpie
instructing the planet on
          how it ought to fly.

You wafted off on that cloud
          propelling my pride
until I cried at that thick
          storm brewing outside
lamenting that lonely gust
          when our essence died.