arrest this poem



sweet thursday is more than just a Steinbeck

fable; it's the warm hand of fall and a day

like today when there's a fair chance

of airing out the neurotransmitters, taking

them for a little ride (come on,

you know what I'm talking about,

and 2 days into this pungent, fraught

season of angled light and leaves

is when the Molson tastes best)



ah, shit, it's the dying days of the world

and America