The incessant cry of a motherless
canary brings the quivering night
air to its knees. But you can get through anything
if you don’t think about it hard enough.
The trigger, for instance, of temptation,
drowning a blinded city in a symphony
of fire-crackers. Lucifer pimps their souls
for Prada shoes and Coach purses. He knows the game,
and we’re keeping score. We ignore the fouls and fumbles
as we’re just trying to find our way back home.
Never-mind the high-rolling payolas,
we’re all just itchin’ to be somebody’s Daisy.
We want our own baby dolls with crystal
blue eyes and curly locks of gold. Pretty, so pretty.
We want to pretend to play-house with our dollies.
We want to eat play-dough spaghetti. We want play-fight
like mommy and daddy. Muffle screams, wear makeup
to hide the bruises. But in the end,
it’s all just pretend.
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