when the sun goes down

she used to say
to me, when blue,
when under
the weather
of the season,
when the sky was
low and light and
grey, she used to
say, i'm no friend
of daylight anymore.
i'm invisible to men
my age, or more,
or even less. my
curves aren't what
they used to be, i
don't walk or look
the same way. the
way i did when i was
young and they'd
blow their horn,
or whistle, and wink,
or ask me for my
number when in line
at the grocery
store, or in a
laundry mat folding
tomorrow's clothes.
give me the night,
she'd say. at least i
have a fighting chance
when the sun goes down.