poem: make it a miss

make it a miss
stalking on long ebon limbs
scrape and a hiss
talking of her and of him
say “this is bliss!”
hocking bare skin like a pimp
paid to persist
mocking the thrill of a glimpse

put it past another hour?
no, that’s far beyond my power
from the fourth floor of this tower
grey ground’s looking rather dour

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