ON THE ELEVATED HIGHWAY
You may never tease me again, lady in
the tower, Fifth Avenue dowager, hunk-tank
of anger and need. I've brought along my
scribbles and my marbles, so you can, with
your nasties, sit and heed. Everything I do
runs backward, you know, and says quite
clearly 'Hal is dead', or 'Nelson's dead'
or something of that forlorn nature now.
I used to live just here, on the other side
of fishing from the bridge. We'd find the
hidden graveyard in the jigsaw puzzle
pieces, and throw them back into the
water just for kicks.