COCKCROW

The feast of a lonely man
Cooks at night.
He boils the memory,
Stirs the candy,
Drinks regrets
Until veery.
Taste his tears
You’ll say
No sugar on cakes.

It started with a mourn
At daylight.
Minutes past midnight,
I saw him chewing;
Dull scone,
Bitter dawn,
And named comfit
But not a well treat.

Long nap and silent sleep,
Better by these
But the hours are already deep.
He’ll just wait and wait
For the rooster to take a seat
On his table of no plates.