Sonnet CCCXIII

To Robin,
             lying on the asphalt.
Another time would find us – live –
upon a grassy hill of beryl,
conversing as the time flies by.

We’d daily meet beyond the meadow,
a pair concealed beneath a willow,
the shadows overhearing us –
our gossip of the latest fuss.

But who has time these days to chatter?
My strict routines keep feet a-patter;
and you’re just trying to survive,
amidst my world – besides -

You’re roadkill, dead upon the road,
your breast a purest ruby-gold.