The hour is nigh.
The cuckoo jumps out
From a wooden clock, and makes merry.
I too jump out of bed, hoping
That this year, would be a little cuckoo,
Madder than I ever imagine,
Like that toy wound in the back,
That goes speeding on
The polished floor, or maybe a hummingbird
Whose wing-speed catches
Me off guard, and I hope to god,
The nectar I sip, just like a glass of rum and coke,
Will make me inebriated
Of that one flower I wake up to, at dawn,
Whose lips decant the nectar,
Of an unseasonal love.
