fake it

the rooftops finally begin to evaporate
the same way energy sheds inches
something poignant is at hand
the dying lung knows
and dear prudence doesn't
wounds get licked
thoughts find resting places
while desires burn
the midnight pyre
she yells out a rain spotted window,
"and don't overlook the past"
oh, that funny thing
of sucking expectation
through a straw
while ambition
sits on the plate,
untouched.