Awake.

I should be asleep now
but who's that tip-tapping?
While Nighthawks chip-chatter,
a lifted green barrette .

It does not require
the strings from your lover
your chip, chattered shatter
break glass on the floor.

The cigarette's ashes
lay cold on the table.
But leave me some solace
and iced blush tonight.

I'll drink it down solid
the wince precedes grinning
and gray clouds of mundane.
And poisoned fruit flies.