Look.
Up there, above your head.
A sulky lawn of day-time, oddly gazing.
He folds into a moldy cauliflower,
Still odly gazing.
Ask him why is he so grey.
What made his whitness go astray.
But, he just remains in the odd gaze.
Chews on his woollen sweater,
Squeezes out a drizzle.
Us looking up,
Now into the reheating sky.
He waffled away,
Not bothering a good-bye.
