Down Tempest Lane
I wish they could turn off the search lights.
Smoke and mirrors interloping
back at the Copters
through the blinds,
blades weeping in symphonic sympathy,
before the Pantyhose and Plunge bras peel off,
some of us can get it on for real.
Others' frigid halves
fake it, like blades of grass,
who is the real snake
the appointed shooter or liar ?