How out of its
trajectory our project
Grows, now that in
our later colouring
We appear, shy,
each with a cigarette,
To speak a while
and haul our memories in,
Before
the Flatiron building's grey façade!
There
is no longer the selfconsciousness
That
lit your voice for years. What we shared
Then,
of blarney and romantic address,
Must
have atrophied while you were away.
You
are become that sad old master we
Once
lampooned, who spoke of his own day
As it
should compass every fire, every
Farflung
grandeur. I cannot see you through
The
smoke : a person stands in place of you.
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