babysitting a migraine at four a.m. as a drunk moon glimmers with little to no hope,
all while singing some gospel of blithering blistering bloat of a song that means nothing to a mother of four
crossing her legs for the first time,
despite not knowing the meaning of sans espoir, mon amour,
so please close the door
parting ways with strangers sounds sleazy when you add in pornographic words
to describe their expressions and movements,
like, the svelte alabaster beauty with taunt skin and a stride like a gazelle flows ebulliently towards the door,
only to be confronted by a pizza delivery driver with a thick sausage in a box of empty promises
at any given moment, with no warning, without hesitation, little by little,
the creak of the steps give, sway, moan to the weight of meat, sweat, bones,
curled into itself, around itself, bounding for a singular destination
while whistling with sweet nectar spittle crusted at the lip with bits of apple still clinging from an unkempt mustache
as a long, impassable night burrows into an interminable dawn,
with little crows chirping some made-up song they heard on the radio,
while I just try to get some sleep, why won’t it ever come?
Fred Aiken Writing