My rhetoric went a pettifogging
in the wee hours
talking ad nauseam
to tired eyes
drinking milk
to sooth their ulcers
I crafted pettifoggery
which proved inconsequential
some might say piddling
adding nothing to the dialogue
laying unabsorbed
by already made up minds
I baked a trifling roast
of picayune sour grapes
with no-account measures
of over-stuffed plums
oozing with petty wisdom
I poured an elixir
of concocted alternative truths
into two-bit beakers
considered by all
to be fine Italian whine
Until it was finally over
and I could sleep
more hairsplitting
quibbling
nitpicking
pushed off
until tomorrow
Peter Witt lives in Bryan, Texas, a former university professor, writes poetry and research family history in his retirement.