That roll played long ago:
The fantasy of streetside hangs,
And easy drunken mornings turned day long
Of downtown ownage.
We had that place.
We always had the itch
Of corporate daytime fate,
And sometimes wondered longingly
About those people..
But she showed me how to shoot up in the park
And the shadows never turned again.
Now I wonder these streets,
Those tenth floor lights,
Of some monster corporate outpost tower:
Why should I cry a tear?
When I missed that place completely
In the fiction that memory so elaborately crafts.
That place: Spent
Age is just an ability
to revisit old places
With the remembered energy of youth
And that largeness still stretching out
Beyond and back then,
The anger never happened,
The stroll is easy,
And the park is a shady break,
From the early August sun,
Casting its heat across everything
I ever knew.