When the sun goes down,
the city comes awake
because idlers come ‘round
like zombies at a wake.

Aroused by pheromones,
the crowds gather en masse,
drinking the dulcid tones
like worshipers at mass.

Their bodies writhe and flail
like pythons around their prey,
hoping to find the holy grail
but only finding the light of day

I avoid those rituals,
choosing passions more true:
music, a book, life less cynical,
during a peaceful night with you.

Photo by Brad Rucker on Unsplash

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