Roger Singer

before evening

there’s an

afternoon asleep

 

a recipe of gathering,

irresponsibility

 

street corners

the city breathes

then exhales

a boxcar moaning

steel

 

old faces disturbed

that youth is wasted

as age burns the

fire out

then points to

the past

laughing infrequently

wondering what’s left

 

digging into empty

pockets

 

going this way,

same as that way