burke: This Time #17

late night urgency
poems are
sleeping in their heads
after the rush
of daylight hours

spreading straw
for a paliasse
I thought of
Old Possum
and acrid laughter
outside the stage door

(the Waste Land
under the bed
kapok wilting
in its stained
history)

these are
the Hollow Hours
wagging their tails
in the chorus
as the smell of
the Biggest Piggery
in the Southern Hemisphere
changes shift
and slaughtermen drive out
as trucks roll in ...