The loneliest hour is this time of day,
when shadows flicker around the small room
and the world no longer asks her to play.

Though she wears a gown of green silk moiré
adorns her hair with a fine golden plume,
the loneliest hour is this time of day.

A baccarat vase holds a stale bouquet;
the air is dense with an ancient perfume.
And the world no longer asks her to play.

The table is set with a rich buffet,
beluga, chilled, just for her to consume.
The loneliest hour is this time of day.

Shrieks of laughter from the corner cafe
invade the walls of her second floor womb.
And the world no longer asks her to play.

She lays forty pills on a silver tray,
Washes them down with a wine from Khartoum.
The loneliest hour is this time of day.
And the world no longer asks her to play.