midnight’s hand tells me to love

while morning says to walk alone

my mind’s a scattered bookshelf

and all my authors out of place

there are so many boxes of me

each marked with a failing pen

and all these faces that I read

it’s strange, but somehow I know

that each stranger understands

so when the sun comes out

I know I’m lucky

having a car that starts and

friendships to ignore—

the irony is I think of them so much,

though they’d never know because

my heart’s a Vegas Strip

where something or someone

is always getting in the way,

so when the purple neon calls

and midnight’s hand loosens its grip

I walk breezy until dawn,

in love with love but only

if poison is preferred.