a Toast

No slips, no trills.
No scattered pills.
No potted plants
On window sills.

No twitter tweet
Nor sweets to eat.
A mild comfort
bucket seat.

A sinus pocket,
Cavern rocket.
Honorary
Hound’s tooth fairy.

Likely nothing,
But still in hoping.
Branches bouncing.
Leaves in quaking.

Arms start aching
Before I labor.
Then Jim, my neighbor,
Stops by to sing.

"Surprise, Surprise,
Day’s on the wing."
A perfect, potent
Little thing.

A calm rotation
Round the ring.
My expectations-
Hope they bring.

Fruit of rhythm
And warm life,
Spread across me
With a butter knife.

11/9/22