THIS MONDAY

This Monday Eve
a poet standing down
with umbrella
in the emerging snow
drifts along
with an emerging
Cinderella climbing out
of our cab at midnight
looking at her veins, legs
and foreign body
as an outcast
with abandoned lips
by the sleepy fog
of a decaying city
offers the taxi man
and myself
a lift up to her balcony
for a vodka and eggs.