Last piece for National Poetry Writing Month 2024…
———[||]———
The End?
April’s end approaches. The door
into May is close but closed, uncertain:
it may or may not open; might openly
accept April’s refugee poets, battered,
dragging tattered and unrhymed lines
or brace itself for followers of form.
There’s no way to tell, today. Only
May decides. We have to wait and see.
April’s Heaven; it always goes away,
It may give way to a hellish May
For folks like me, well…
You just can’t tell
April was heaven’s heaven;
May may just be May.
Scrambled, Not Fried 
Great, and you made it (again) can I get you a drink?
Wow! This is very very good. It ends perfectly too.