They clatter out of the Paragon

fringed, feathered, foul-mouthed,

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singing at voice tops, filling the air

with sparking exuberance.  Arm in arm,

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a battalion in beer, cheeking the chaps

that cat call from curb sides offering to treat them.

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Mary doubles up with laughter so hard

she says it makes her teeth ache.

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At each alley way and street corner

they turn another girl loose until

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only two are left to say goodnight.

Maggie becomes a song disappearing

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into darkness.  Sarah at the lodging door

hopes Mrs Meany has glued herself to sleep

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amongst finished boxes stacked high

on the table.  Hopes she isn’t waiting up

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with a What time do you call this?

a You’ll catch it when they lock you out

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for half the day, a whispered Baggage,

phossy jaw set to chew so hard at Sarah

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she has to look away.  Hopes there’ll be no

Out on your ear if you don’t make the rent,

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to follow her up the wooden hill,

to a damp bed shared with a killed mood,

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to work rosary beads through her fingers,

pray for change, wake in the night with a start

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to see her work things glowing away

on the chair.  Like an omen or a visitation.