Pigeons coo on a sunny morning,
The broom cries coarsely,
The man wails, “Tomato, tomato”.
The newspaper lands with a thud on the porch,
The alarm goes with a snooze of a temptation
And a mat of dead drunken mosquitoes.
The triumph of one evening
Becomes the madness of the day ahead
And the soothing calm of the dark night.
The urbane dead celebrate stubbed cigarettes,
And breathe in an empty bottle
Where unwashed dishes is a new metaphor.
Where earning and credit cards are none-of-your business
Where crying is a useless ploy
And laughing a sadistic relief
The tube is a compulsive irritant
“How many bodies?” cries the insufferable
You zap and yawn and well...