Monday Morning

I stopped in my sleep to watch the sun rise
Unceremoniously through streets
That would perhaps be beautiful if they were dirtier;
And saw the careful paradoxes I cleverly resurrected
Like the inevitable metaphor that is tauntingly absent
Slither toward the spent womb of the young whore.
Being too well bred to start a scene
Or make cowardly amends,
I woke and wore my pants and let her lovingly lie