An open case? Besides familiar frame of you,
the day's paler by the minute. Respectfully

pays its last rays... faces acute, then vague
into silt. Recalled in last meeting, watery-

eyed micros dribbly down to yesterday's open
frying pan. That's because the tray hasn't left

yet and if I could, none of you would panhandle
here. Arthur, to stay lower case, a wake

yet a pale misnomer. To not say (what) and
be a part (of, or from). But that was

two spaces ago. Who isn't, these days?
Don't give me lyrical couples who go skinny-

dip, slapdash then slobber into happy
tomorrows. By tomorrow, love will pan out

into pots and spinning tops, though isn't it
a discreet porter we still reminisce about,

and play footsy with? Friends and relatives,
the occasion calls for it, is sustained by it,

till the skinny gives way to. What?
Anniversaries. So live and let's leave.

Seconded and already soft in the saddle,
these graduate into hours, steering the level

headed towards some feeble consensus,
like catnap, a hippity hop, soggy socks

strung out to dry till Sunday; all you'll never be.