Day's End

night divides as clearly as the brightness of day time cuts and doubly sharp in the shadow of night on the last train of tokyo subway you see a woman, middled age a goddess all on her own face heavily painted her fingers heavy with rings, one of a big torquoise, another white crystal, and another plain gold her powder betrays her the lines cut through leaving a chill between the mouths that in the silence scream to the world of the thirst underneath to be young and supple again and desirable as a young virgin she looks suspiciously and listlessly towards you as you give her that telling glance of what she is the light in the red light part of town she works is even dimmer than the younger ones' a lane as cold as it can be if you are not drunk, down and out and sordid under bright chandeliers in a flashy part of town newly created manipulative angels flutter around in body hugging dresses obvious of the advantage they have leaving a trail of paris designer's fragrance female crickets they walk faster, in full confidence too and could tango in the highest of heels their skin gleam like milk under neons, and their voices a cat on heat here and there, men in their prime eyes excited as owl zerooing on a mice try to play one up game with their designer watches, expenisve pipes, shoes and wear out of the train, the middle age woman walks to her one room apartment echoes of her shoes hitting nightly and coldly at the facts of life she finds hard to swallow she tries to tell her lonely heart for the umpteenth time, she is a lot better than others her age - at least she can still hide her lines the only white lie she tries to do on herself and catch some men double her age her sleep is an ocean she tosses and tosses like waves floating between torture of night and the longed for warmth of day