Wednesday, October 7, 2015

The End of Fifty Two

The End of Fifty Two

The Tuesday sun
set and carried with it,
the lies of New York and
a thousand dreams.

The broken pieces fell
together in the bars
and bedrooms of the city:
Glue is another fairytale.

I let the sorrow wash
over me like fine whiskey
across my tongue and stared
out the window at the passing city.

The train car couplers creaked
and groaned in a sad staccato.
A preview of the death rattle
waiting in the distance.


1 comment:

Eden Baylee said...

You're like fine whisky , Marty, aging and improving as you do so.

Happy Birthday, eden