The dead would not forget
That there were others
Who witnessed these private wars.
You care, you are a philosopher,
You get to the bottom of the martini glass
And talk about the food as if you own it,
And I can be nothing but a gleeful voyeur
As you send back your bloody steak again
To get it right.
Some beggars get your dollars, others only glares.
You hug the person next to you
And complain that you are cold.
The lights of the marina are a moving picture show
And you stumble into the walls
As if you don't have a role.
The streets are filled with people talking to themselves
Like that, innocent of how they got that way.
They find new selves in every colored light
And fight not God or nature
As they think themselves welcome
In each revolving door.
This is what I haven't renounced.
This is what I needed to know.
But now, but now, I watch it limp away
And with it goes the city, turned to black.
