As night drapes its silken folds over your bared shoulders,
and the pitched garments of shelter begin to take over,
you wish for the same fate every moonfall
that absolves the day's every cat call.
Sprays from indignant paint cans
rise above the towering masses of think tanks
and trim the edges of papier mached Sultans
as they bare their corrugated arms
and shelve their teeth for more trying times.
Cupboards filled with fickle sickles
that shape-shift until it tickles
the sneeze out
are all that lie about
in the falsely floated doubt
of being embroilled in the thickest of pickles.
Miserable clocks can't help their fate.
Ticking hands seldom abate
the bubbling coils of enraptured dusk-
they actually intensify the potent hint of musk.
Pride would well in the bosom of the ascetic
who can't seem to remember the specifics
of the tired balls that sought
to tie his hair in its penitent knot,
when he beholds his hazy horizon
shimmer with the lazy approach of the sun,
carrying forth a pot of videotaped poison.
It would course and gambol
child-like in flow; out of control
within the thirsty, bleeding canals
and merge blessed chemicals as they dance
with the deserving, parched cells of penance
and condense the rubed vessels
into droplets slated to do nothing else
when their time came.