It’s 2am and comfort’s closing.

Everywhere’s west of my mother’s face.

Prophets flap upside down maps,

airwaves croon low-slung excuses

after a lifetime on the gas. Dogs ride

side-saddle to the dump, scavenge

four octaves deep for the tailspin

I won’t see coming. Provocative anatomy

inflates market prices, but surely its time

to take each other home, confound

the odds, tend to our impossible need?

The bookies say it’s a gamble to exit

on the inhale of an aria, say it’s tricky

to predict - the volta, the tipping point.