On the morning

of the fifth, or was it the third?

At fifteen past whatever

on the mind's solar dial,

those darn wheels fell off

from keeping the rhythm and

momentum going.

And taking much needed

cover from the flash flood

of discontentment,

that

came on again

out of nowhere.

Hiding backstage

from words on cue

only a puzzled feeling as director

could know.

Or not having a clue,

not even cookie crumbs

from a favorite label

of yours.

Left around

leading me

to some sort of lead,

not a bloodhound bred

manner,

or a Holmes predominate

demeanor.

Making our simple

conflict of interest

into a major unfinished

scene.

Closing the night

with a questioning heart,

of who will do what

and when again,

in this Jack-in-the-box surprise turnaround.

And perpetuate quantity time

not quality presence

the uncertainty of its shallowness.