Morning’s spent remembering nights before

when passion was in the surprise getting,

not the steady having of, and letting,

and success was somewhere in the surprise

finding beauty still beauty come sunrise...

Infrequent then as it’s vivid now, more

often in, alone, than out there scoring.

Could New York be so lonely and boring?

You’d be surprised; it eats me where I shit,

that fearful tickle, like I’m late for class,

lost, in long, empty halls with no hall-pass,

walking faster now, now jogging a bit,

   still. Memories don’t, always; either gone

   by day, or neon even now, years on.