In the little room
(by the hour or by the week)
She sits like a queen on her barge,
And I would be her Paris
And give a kingdom for a mirth.

Her scattered face
In the shattered mirror,
Strewn a million different ways,
Perhaps more.
A heap of broken images.
I can only have one;
I am not strong enough for two.

The blaring light swings like a pendulum -
A bare blub on a frayed cord,
Undisturbed by its broken switch;
Plenty of light to pick lice by.
Love songs on the radio -
The Metropolitan playing much too loud.
With open arms she takes me
Sailing down the Nile;
Through tattered sheers
And broken panes
The peasants work their treadmills
And fear the Seventh Plague,
Rolling like rain across the plains.

The cigarette
Smolders in the ashtray -
"I'm dying, sweet Ceramic, dying."
Was it for this, then,
That I found my way downtown?
To where the men stand on corners
In tattered overcoats,
Their white hair pushed down like grass
In an Autumn wind,
To beg for dimes?

I leave her snoring,
Not to disturb her until she is ready,
With cab fare she'll never use,
Enough for a tip if she ever does,
Stuffed where she's sure to find -
Gideon's and love songs never sung.