this fruitless night was retreating.
an immodest overture,
to the day dressed in the faux morality.
there was nothing to take back
because it didn’t bring anything with it.
the expired anticipation laid exhausted
between the disposable aspirations,
plastic forks and the foam cups.
the drunken desolation was agonizing
under the soaked in sweat blanket.
disoriented dreams wiltedly plodded following the fading gloom.
rocking chair on the porch,
yellow dust in the nostrils,
raising sun, hoarse horny morning cicadas.
another pyrrhic victory she achieved,
over the winding road to her front door.