The house of Discontent
In the yard a cat snoozes in the new sun,
while an old woman, sweeps cigarette butts
off the dance floor. In hot, perfumed rooms,
men are dressing avoid looking at sleeping
women and crumbled sheets. On lips the taste
of defeat, reeking of yesterday's booze and in
tired eyes the bile of unhappy love ominously
glint, there will be violence soon. The utter
loneliness of paid for sex, nothing can be as
pathetic as the sight of men seeking embrace
of love at a house of sadness.