The toenails of the decades click on the oak wood floor:
they patter past the post, mortality set on "stun";
they'll eventually get the zoomies
and then your race is run.
The other day I learned of a new procedure:
they peel your prostate like an orange, removing it whole
rather than slicing it. I don't know how they get it out,
or if it leaves a hole.
The yellow leaves are brilliant in the sun,
the birch bark's white puts cadmium to shame,
the sky gets pale closer to the ground,
the tide runs back the way it came.
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