W***E OF DAYLIGHT

Awakened by the sound of scurrying copper-thieves.

Before, it used to be just drifters killing drifters.

 

Morning �" a punch in the throat; I come out and say it:

Sometimes I wish all the world was a women’s prison.

 

Mechanical men with mechanical brains of chrome

efficiently re-drawing their precious coffin-maps.

 

Make-up smeared from the night before, our whorish skyline

kills the time showering, putting on designer clothes.

 

Yes, I know mundanity is a foundation block.

If only the plain truth seeped through: at night, she’s flawless.

 

My hand wants to lie with this poem:

Pretend I’m not filled with a jealous rage

as daylight fair, she gives it all away.