songs of the sumday

moonlight on sourdough

the cannibal collective has no appetite for light
they cower in the refuge of the shade
in caves and holes and under rocks they hang and crawl and coil
abstainers from the break of day parade
creeping quiet ‘cross the evening esplanade
more like Mohican trackers than a marching time brigade
confidants of casual discretion
stock brokers in the after hours trade
scavenging the gutter joints ‘til morning
surviving on the scraplings they bestow
confessions lost amid the melting candle wax
moonlight spread on top of sourdough
/
she likes a breeze with a bit of a bite
a night with a full set of teeth
a pour to the lip of the rim clean and neat
a stool with a rung for her feet
a crowd of anonymous samples
a room draped in shadows and frugally lit
barbacks & keeps well rehearsed to their role
quick on the refill & sparse with the wit
a Tuesday night evening that ends with a story
though not one to tell or to show
guilty pleasures served on diner china
moonlight spread on top of sourdough
/
she cross-legged sits and drinks and waits
and feels the evening’s eyes
senses the beast encircling
as the jukebox sirens and sighs
the night plays not the part of prey
it cannot be hunted or chased
the night feeds on the hour grey
indifferent to hunger’s haste
content to nonchalant advance
bait taken late & slow
risk written in the recipe
moonlight on sourdough
/
the City scene shrinks by the weekend
like  a cotton dress drowning in steam
from the Mission to North Beach she back floats
staying one stroke ahead of the stream
a cursed avatar of the ancients
damned dame-ification of Nyx
goddess carcass for vultures late craving
a flesh and bone nocturnal fix
the savage who claims her for feasting
will find that the meal’s sin pro quo
as is the way for the witching
moonlight on top sourdough
/
there’s Bob’s sweets shop on Polk street
the Pinecrest on Geary and Mason
and a dozen sleaze motels and havens
flop housing the vampire nation
every Joe present’s a poacher
and half the Janes posing are Joes
by six when the Sutter dives open
the pickings are slim as the stem of a rose
/
they sound retreat to booths inside of Ace’s
fixing bayonets to meet the morning’s charging glow
guts growling short the ordered satisfaction
moonlight spread on top of sourdough