At 3 AM When Cross Town Traffic Dies – Sonnet Fifty-Eight

At 3 AM when cross town traffic dies
And silent thoughts begin their witches’ drone,
That slow parade of ghosts, I realize
Just how my life, like night, exists alone.

I never did quite get how people fit,
How my “real” seemed so easy to negate
In face of their never-ending bullshit,
The hard attacks they’d stage to my relates.

But my truth’s hold in fourteen, five bar lines,
And fuck them if they find my jokes unclear,
Like Auden’s quote on writes and farts inclines,
Read deeper mother-fucks and they’ll appear.  

So, go into the coming dawn with ease,
And I remain, gently, here to please.