Time is a sledgehammer to porcelain,
Memory, the hue of bathwater once
The kids have gone to bed. The word is said,
The allowance spent, quicker than the growth
Of an atom outside the lab. Give, then,
Each moment as a prize, hard-won from death.
Flaunt your breath, stolen from the gods before
The lights came on. The games are accomplished,
Now share the cup with the players common
To this old dressing room beneath the stars.
Before the final bars close out the page,
Cry out a heaven, true or make-believe,
And seduce the hands that hold the mild hours
To prayer, before the hammer swings again.