Now is the time for all these random words.
Tonight and only once this poet packs
this pitty-patter into tandem herds
of wishes hoped become now know it acts.

Flown yesterday was perpendicular.
Potatoes grow so upward from the ground,
a fact denoting no particular
resentment of the harvest come around.

Tomorrow long or brief soliloquy
will fill up all my empty time and space
and should by chance you hear you will agree
much leisure leads to too much rhyme apace.

If bowling could but satisfy MacBeth,
succession would not go awry in death.

~ Robert Stone, 18 May 2017