Again I walk the loneliest streets,
Stumbling over the rough pavement
Or perhaps my own grief.
I listen to the clangor
Of the railroad being rebuilt
And wonder if I could do that
With the worn out structure of my heart.
I shake my head at this and say no.
Now I’m drinking black coffee in a bare room,
Reading the savage words of Aeschylus
And occasionally pausing to look out the window
At the vast indifferent city night.
This is where I’ve always lived.
This is where I’ll die.