Stepped off the train, swept into an April rain.
Sickly exhaust fume, sticky honeysuckle bloom.
Tattoo on concrete. It’s the milieu of the street.
Content to be alone in the convent of the unknown.

Don’t make a scene, don’t make a scene, don’t make a scene, don’t make a scene

Deserted bride has flirted with pride.
Too forlorn to blush in the stillborn dawn hush, hush.
Graffiti on skin. It’s her back-alley sin.
Strings of dreamy haikus cling to steamy sinews.

Don’t make a scene, don’t make a scene, don’t make a scene, don’t make a scene