In Turn

        
                           This storm has things wetter than I want to swim,
                                                      like how moons set when I dream of him.
                           I could argue to have my money back
                                                                                 or not. I don’t keep track.
                           
                           Soon we will forfeit an hour again.
                                                                                 Or is this one they let us gain
                           until they steal it back? I can’t make myself remember.
                                                      I’ve not drifted this far south any September.
        

        


prompted by Change of Words
at Poets & Writers

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