Past the rednecks engaging in metaphorical measuring of their members,
an act involving numerous ball colliding on felt
fueled by barley & hops,
her sillouette comes into focus... Almost.
For how can a lense repeatedly smudged by the finger prints of the ignorant
and careless see anything?
Let alone her?
Yet, there she is, recognizable,
Thought I hardly know her.
It would seem unparalleled energy detested unrivaled lethargy,
as conductors have no need for broken watches.
Yet, like a pummeled pugilist swinging at an opponent he no longer can see
I lash out attempting to catch anything
that might continue the conversation...
In hopes she might be looking to procure a malfunctioning time piece.