Down in the Plaza of Culture,
beneath my third floor hotel room till Monday
flows the energy of city chaos.
Tooting horns,
wailing sirens
the midnight silly.
The parrots fly down from the hills at daybreak,
and take squawk over city central.
The street vendors chant the numbers they are selling.
Lovers peck on park benches oblivious of pedestrian traffic,
which confirms that the notion of romance
is nothing more than the corny foreplay.
Insistent I have always been to mate only
with intellectual equals, which explains why I am single,
awaiting Prince Neanderthal.
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