YOU OUGHT TO KNOW
7th Street's not a real frontier, and I've
got a fixed-blade knife right here. Civil
War vintage too. There's a man wearing
dark pants nearby the table. He stands as
straight as can be. I am not him, and he
is not me. Each setting has a lit candle.
Flickering lights now dot the room.
People come in, and find a place to sit -
they are served by two girls in fine dress.
I do not know the meanings for this, yet
I enjoy here the spectacle; like a
festival of night, or of flickering
light. Whichever, I guess,