EVER THE TUMBLER
Even so the shades of night rehearse the day;
little to be said for passage. One globe deserves
another, turning. We manage to eke out some sort of
existence and I watch the watchman find his keys
outmoded. The tumbler stirs - that midnight sound
which means there's no one else within. One lost and
lonely midnight building; 21st street and a parchment-ivory
silence so poorly lit by artificial light. Why are these new
girls grooming themselves now, before the dawn is near?
If they haven't made their dollar yet, they won't this night
at all. There's nothing sadder than another lost opportunity
and everything with it gone. What season is this again? It
feels so like Autumn - that sadness, the same brown glow.
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