Last Chance 

I can grasp the reason /you force me to juggle/ in  the remedies you deal me/ cures as I walk up old worn stairs/first I pose at the stop signs on a motorbike holiday./Duped in a seance, controlled by the important, impossible lie that virtue is it’s own reward;/it kicks me in the backside/ between narrow lumber piles/I wind up with less than a human voice/echoing daily in the breezes/in the hushed tone from obscure choirs/you must wait for my improvement/kneel, then, on parched brown August lawns.

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