THE URBAN SURREALIST 2013

A revolution. One morning stretched to noon and back, like the cat. I saw the coming of the coffee cups, black with promise. I heard the starting of the car, the kicking of the feet, the pushing of the pedal on the season cycle; around the sun we go with not a break. And now the half-circle cup sits quietly, less disturbed. Domain recovered its shocking.

Now comes the cold, the snap. The knitting sits atop and wraps around. The cat is undecided at the doorstop, one way adventure, wrong way warming. All outside or in, all dead or buried until Spring. What is new about the date when we've met before? I see you are changed, it must be the hat. I can change with the weather, but I'd rather do it alone. 

What is new but the old one again. And again, it stays the same. I'll call it by another name, the thirteenth Earl. The one was enough, but that isn't how it works. So the best is set to come, but has it yet? I'll be under the blanket, revolving. Or in the bath, dissolving.