They Come Out At Night
My words are not always
milk and honey.
They are not
trimmed with lace
and wearing
Grandma's pearls
while stealing kisses
in the rain.
They don't want to hold
your hand anymore.
No.
They come out to play
when I least expect,
each syllable
a trick in the making,
each word whoring itself
for a penny or a nickel
or even just a glance
from that beautiful stranger
across the room.
They wear their tight black bras,
and mourning shawls;
they drink like men
and smoke cigars.
Hooting and howling
as the moon begins to rise,
they wake the neighbors,
and
refuse
to go
unheard.
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