News At Six

The night is just as cold
when you wait as when you don't,
it conceals the shadows
when the sunshine won't.
My sky is prettier at six
performing all those dying tricks,
so perfect it can make me cry
as on the stars I spy and spy.
No one can tell me a single thing
about fin and leg and wing
without the tongue and mouth
in a breath gone south.

I guess the world is a sadder place
as shame beats steady on the clock's old face.

I read a pome about a hungover gent
whose bed was full of navel lint
and parched old birds he keeps talking to
when no one else will listen or do.