I disappear in a truck
in the capitol, sterling rain,
a bandit salamander, I guess.
you have my socks,
while I am in Paramus,
and postcards are tomorrow's
history textbooks;
proof that we existed small but the greatest,
in books and bullshit.
outlet malls and dive bars,
there are bastards like me
in those palaces, doubtless,
good at life,
but not great.
midnight at The Carlyle,
Sundays in Montreal,
I am still young.