A broken and cracked parking lot in Ashtabula.
A man in a black suit crosses.
Looks with curiousity and suspicion
At the strange visitor, called, he could not know,
By something he would be embarrassed to define,
The intimations of an ever more doomed love,
The flim profundity of a life spent in words.
A day later, in a handsome district
Of the great city, maker and mover of Things,
Queen and despot of the northern shores,
Sovereign of coal and cattle,
The bricks of the halal merchants basking in the sun,
The same man stops,
Hands behind his back. Hat tilted.
Stares inside the cafe, eyes creased with age,
Blinded in the slanting morning light,
Loitering as if for some bus back across the river,
And then moves on.
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