The night is young, but everyone is old
In this town’s restaurants and whiskey bars.
I dream of fireside wisdom—truths retold—
Yet all I hear? Worn lies of girls and cars.

The night is young, but everyone is sore
In this pretending jazz club, Blue Guitars.
I’m looking for a pathway or a door;
They’re absent in all of these au revoirs.

The night is young, and we’re all unaware
Of any counsel in our repertoires.
Temptations—cheap—I can find anywhere…
But I feel more content now with this certain farce.

Resigned to stalk the sidewalks of past lives,
I turn downtown to date in haunted dives.

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