Not hell but a street, not
Death but a fruit-stand, not
Devils just hungry devils
Simply standing around the stoops, the stoops.
We find our way, wind up
The night, wound uppermost,
In four suits, a funny pack
From which to pick ourselves a card, any card:
Clubs for beating up, spades
For hard labor, diamonds
For buying up rough diamonds
And hearts, face-up, face-down, for facing hearts.
Dummies in a rum game
We count the tricks that count,
Waiting hours for the dim bar
Like a mouth to open wider After Hours.
Leave a Reply