In Tangletown

I am the last lost poet.
At 3rd and Market I sit
at my old table, by the window
on the second floor
and wait, and watch and write.
The trains stopped running
long ago, the nights are silent.
Poems don't come easy.
There are no more saxophones
crying in the lonely dark.
Only the occasional glare
of a window lamp marking
the territory of an insomniac.
The buildings are mute.
Curtains hang heavy and damp.
This place has lost its soul.
The streets are quiet
in Tangletown.