36th & Broad Street

The ground has grown colder

The flowers though grow taller

Fail to emit a scent of serenity

The clouds still allow sunshine

But the pallor of your laughter

Is what one would reserve for a scream

My tattered peacoat still warms me

The trumpet player plays a solo 

On a street soon empty 'cept for you and I

Your gloved hand still holds mine

But the grasp is one for a ledge 

And I feel I'm slipping to the ravine

An accordion grinder plays so gently

The ash from a cigarette finds the wind

The street light changes so slightly

And the steam arises from beneath a manhole cover

And like a ghost I fade into a dream 



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