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This night
Doesn't even rate a memory,
Let alone a poem.
Another haphazard assembly of singles
Summoned from the depths of lonely lairs
By High Lord Trundlebum,
Who doesn't deign to show.
The usual rules prevail:
Amiable chumps form clumps
And natter like barnyard hens.
The few that don't fit, flit,
Test the fens for receptiveness,
Scatter if things get dicey.
And I'm the iciest berg of all:
I don't proact, react, retract;
Wallflowering for me is aggressive.
Why do I bother with these forays?
My own new best friend is me.