Hiding in the attic, Heavy finds solace in the blaming of the cat, or the cold.
Once a soon-to-be will inevitably become a now, won't it Heavy?
And so in the attic, Heavy waits.
The water glasses are tinkers- how now with their this's and that's,
are they so often filled to their brims with not water at all? (If I do say)
Well, of course, that's aside our point.
But, Mr. Bones, I do retire often to your refrain,
and yourself have spoke of whimsy or whirl.
Both rather wet reasons. (If I do say)
Because the water glasses are still full,
and Heavy's cold toes curl down, away.
Because they are thirsty,
and because they are cold. 
And days aren't between now's and then's.
They are between now's alone.
Because, from the views of the attic in the morning,
or more-over from the views of my eyes to the ceiling,
it looks like all we've ever had is now.