The Tramp

The crisscross pattern,

Its very nature, it doesn’t protect;

Allows for the slanted rays of evening

To fall through: a colander.

Nor can slight sounds of

Feet, paws, toes, pads,

A pat, made faint by agility,

Be completely muffled to ears

Perked in alleys beneath the fire escapes,

Through which reverberations ring,

Buzz… until teeth chatter.

Now, an approaching click-clock,

A tick-tock, almost, of her heels,

As she returns, yet another night,

Long after the rays’ departure,

From a swift, yet exhausting day,

A day at work, the inescapable truth,

Reason for her promiscuous stride,

Somehow revealing tinges of defeat

She so desperately tries to hide at day.

Taking her place, reserved

By frequency in use, each night, every night,

The tramp, she is without proper sheets;

A substitution of her only nice set

Plus the furs, multiple furs, upon her shoulders

That give the impression of top heaviness.

But, even in her dreams,

Does she rehearse, train, prepare,

For today’s habitual sequence,

            Played out all over again… tomorrow.