I heard the music, warmth of the old songs;
something moved me to put on your album;
I was a fan, you seemed bitter with wrongs
whose words you put on your wounds to salve them.

We struggled in that all-night dingy bar
to get a foothold on that sad island
but always gaining, looming from afar,
was the past’s skyscraper-hid horizon.

But you were elusive, furtive lone wolf,
as if bitterness determined your fate—
there always was an unbridgeable gulf
between words and non-deeds—now it’s too late

and the weak wintry strains of sun have set:
we must get on with our lives of regret.



David Francis