Wait until the day says it`s closing, and public is put away.
Write by the light of a pay phone your list of `I meant to say`.
Like `Winter comes too soon`, or `Radiators hum out of tune`.
Out under the Disraeli, with rusty train track ties, we`ll carve
new streets and sidewalks, a city for small lives, and say that
we`ll stay for one more year. Wait near the end of
September. Wait for some stars to show. Try so hard not to
remember what all empty playgrounds know: that sympathy
is cruel. Reluctant jester or simpering fool. But six feet off the
highway, our bare legs stung with wheat, we`ll dig a hole and
bury all we could not defeat, and say that we`ll stay for one
more year. Bend to tie a shoelace, or bend against your fear,
and say that you`ll stay for one more year. With so much left
to seek, the lease runs out next week.