April Fox

in the dark, fumbling for the lightswitch
like a drunk still wiping whore-red lipstick
from his crotch and breathing fumes of
cigarettes and stale whiskey on the doorman as he
tries to maintain some sense of
dignity
-the light evades, exhaustion wins
the floor becomes a haven, cold and hard
unforgiving, flat black tiles cracked around the edges
pretending to give solace
in the night.