Comatose In Dried Tomatoes

Sirens came wailing  

a rehearsed scream. 

If no great endings happen

without an adieu, 

release me from Gettysburg’s 

land in 1863;

I claim no rights

to knowing blue 

from red. 

Posture matters as greatly

as masked beaks serving 

a can of dried tomatoes

to the lethargic, 

without a peck 

to be identified.