Anya

You say up your game, always take your chance, don’t shuffle the remains, listening to his muted song, who would ever lance, his need to belong, watching the rain, snake down a naked path, can’t be bothered to nail, the swell of crowded bars, cargo ships and shining France, rooms with dark marks, red lips white-faced, cigarettes and the dance, waiting to slip again, here we just bumble along, flying by our pants, hope we’re not wrong, before the jake, asks to polish unlit lamps, kindness awaiting, treating us like tramps.