Your Wee Small Hour

Brains of a rocking horse.
Leading you to the petrol tank.

Drink in the bad day.

A trash can Sinatra hue.
Sinks you.

Murmering your life,
for a dollar quart.

Tell the world everything.

Christ. If only there were company.
There might even be a broken heart.

But you will shadow the sun,
of all those tomorrow mornings.

And stone the crows.
If they bothered to show up.