Weekend Hopes

This is where I turn
the corner, find myself
in a random alley
with a desk and a comfortable
chair to sit in, a pad
and pen, a prostitute
and a night’s supply of alcohol,
and maybe God or a meteor
will shake the ground up,
and I and ink and whore
and empty cans will
tumble like Yahtzee dice
to spell out significance.

I’ll be writing blind,
stockings tied around my eyes,
muzzled,
her fist in my mouth,
so no visitors, no calls,
unless my pen
or prostitute run dry.
Whichever comes first.