POEM: Tokyo Noir

Neon animates a puddle
long after trains have quit.
It seems quiet and abandoned,
excepting those who flit
between afterhours rendezvous
where sake cups go “clink.”
And a bare-chested yakuza
gleams with glistening ink.
An urgent rapping at his door
interrupts the spring sale,
granting coitus interruptus
he ‘s too few fingers to fail.

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