Shh. Listen. The night is so quiet,
It’s almost the witching hour.
Even the tin can rattling on
The Street of Desire has ceased.
Not since the Big Bang has
The world been so thoughtless.
The pantomime on the corner
Is being read his Miranda rights
In the slummy light of the galaxy
On the cosmic bowling alley’s sign.
A mannequin in a bridal store window
With her white shoulder strap slipping
Reveals a breast to passersby.
She could have been a king’s
Courtesan and astronomer were it not for her
Cruel smile and Shaker father.
Fortuneteller hobnobbing with
God and the devil over olives
At a costume party full of thieves,
Take off your wig and false eyelashes
In the veined mirror of the Destiny Hotel.
There’s a message for you.
It will be whispered in your ear
By a clerk with a ring of master keys.
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