Night's like any other. Street's deserted.
No surprise.
Why you'd had that prideful, virgin
Flair in eyes?
... Here a herd of policemen is marching
Under lights
From the lanterns. Plywood toys; straps, arching,
Hold them tight.
Here a pompous coachman flys as ghost in
Asphalt creek.
Next to it is pedestal that's hosting
Gallant dick.
Factories. The smoking chimneys.
Clouds go by.
Here I kiss your lips, my pixie:
Well, goodbye.
Here I stroll along the fence and shudder,
Hat's askew.
Walking like a thief, I hide in shadows
All way through.
Just like any decent poet, when one's
Twenty two.
I'm in love, and possibly, these plain words
Are now true.