Blue and yellow cabs, this must be
somewhere else, some Philadelphia
tree lined street I've stumbled onto.
Where is Perry? Where is PJ? Where
is Spruce and Milk and Honey? If
I choose to sit at Rittenhouse, how
soon before I'm gone? Those looming
church-house windows tell me nothing.
I'd better walk to that museum again,
and mutter sweet nothings along the
way. Casks and baby-flasks, the
lonesome sackcloth of fire and ash.