Shill

There's a sadness that comes
when you realize
moving on is not so much a thing
as an occupation.  A rare pain.

A leaving of the scene
of something like a crime.  The lights
go down and you put on your hat
and the eyes move to a door.

Little by want, you ask
for those two seconds more.
They aren't coming.  Never will.
Fumble for a lighter.

It's not there.
Second time tonight.
Ask for keys.
They tell you "no," with difficult emphasis.

Remeber you don't where you parked.
Can't recall the stories
if there were a
gun to your chest.

Too early for flowers.  Too late for
whatevers.  Sit down kind of sadness.
Moving on.  Not a thing.  Nor occupation.
A rare pain when you realize.  Comes.

New York High, New York Low

The brand newness of New York City
is a flitting thing,
not without value,
on it's own,
because,
and it should be
granted this,
every day in that city
will bring you new challenges
and old ones in new costumes,
but ultimately,
it grows tiresome,
and at that point
you will ask yourself
how many times can I be denied
and still come back for more when there are so many

other skylines to see.