Markets Crater in Closing Minutes
It is almost 1960. Another
decade laid to rest or ruin.
Yes, another love poem
as we run out of time;
same cast of characters
(pretty much), same glib
narrator, same bistro after
another besotted Sunday
night. Then the goodbye
letter, which backfires,
just as they all have. Oh
how I wish you could enjoy
these last few carnal moments
with little old me. You know
better than anyone how I’ve
a soft spot for giddy doom
and gloom. What better
excuse for a party, no?
