Failure

The cool dark night envelops the humming sound of the refrigerator

As memories flow with liquored ease.

Four pieces evenly distributed.

One stretched over a lonesome grave too many years neglected.

One conversing with painful players over two-step designs.

One saving those around while wilting like a Autumned flower.

One craving to understand the machinations of a world gone over.

And the center stares as the long steel teases with a click.

A half moon within fermented fingers feels no fear as each piece asks for this.

The Reaper sits on his stool waiting for his prize that will not be delivered

For the home will not let its captive audience leave the cylindrical lair.

A salt stream appears as incantations are invoked for understanding.

With a solemn nod the Reaper understands:

Not on this night.

Not yet.