That feeling—
you get
late
at night
when you're walking
with no
soul and far too
few cigarettes
left towards
the last lonely
car in the
shrewdly landscaped lot—shivering
like that haggard
and scrawny
short pack
of paperback
maple scraps you're
presently moving
with fast and
hollow steps past—and wondering
as usual
while you pass—do I
appear still
like them?—so young
and so
dumb and
so eagerly holding
onto
what's left
of a few piddling
scraps
of those—
dead mementos of last year?
