by Race Capet
In the darkness sirens sing their songs—
a distant ballad of the bereft
whose luckless night is the box spring of our mattress.
The young ones in the park don't hear;
they chew their music open-mouthed.
But we who hear them are old enough
to have learned these songs as lullabies;
all along the rue we pull up the covers
with a lusty sated sigh
and light a cigarette.
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