” … so you’ve been broke, and you’ve been hurt, show me somebody who ain’t … I know I ain’t nobody’s bargain, but hell a little touch-up and a little paint, I ain’t lookin’ for praise or pity, I ain’t searching for a crutch, I just want someone to talk to, and a little of that human touch, just a lil’ of that human touch …” – Bruce Springsteen, ‘Human Touch

                _________

do you revisit those sultry summer nights,
sweet sweat pouring off your skin,
your hair fanning an eternal fire,
toasting deep within,
ever since I saw you, standing at our old train station,
wearing your red beret,
and paging through a book by Emma Goldman,
somethin’ ’bout the tragedy of women’s emancipation,
we stood there in the pouring rain,
wishing we could race down the cobblestones on a renegade lane,
to take us away, from the stasis, the bruises, and the pain,
we laughed, we cried,
we held onto each other,

yearning for freedom,

from the straightjackets they tried to wrap around everyone’s brain …

Well, that was all those years ago,
when love meant something more than a ten buck stage show,
now the guys at the watering-hole tell me that you’re a big deal today,
it looks like you’ve packed Emma Goldman, and all your other books away,
perhaps they remind you of our younger selves,
it’s a pity that you’ve grown so large that there’s no room left for me on your neatly lined shelves,
ah but I still remember the woman that you once were,
but now you’re  weighed down by your pearls and your faux-fur …

I wonder if you even think of me at all,
the boy who promised to be beside you,
always,
f you ever were to stumble, or to fall,
or has your new gucci-clad crew,
stripped you of your soul,
as you laugh and drink and screw,
I wonder if you even remember my name,

or have you buried me along with all that you once were,
out of sanctimonious shame …

… I’m still here, where you left me, festering in this rotting old town,
unemployed since the years when those stock-tickers went plummeting down,
today as I stand in line for my warm bowl of soup,
the TV on the homeless shelter wall says it’s going to get worse,
cos’ even the banks have flown the coop,
well, I think of you often, as I lay my head on the cold ground,
tasting your soft lips as our tongues waltzed around,
but tonight I kiss my bottle of moonshine,

that keeps me company while the sophisticates wine and dine …
I know you’ve forgotten all about me,

cos’ you’ve got futures to trade,
blue-chip stocks to sell,

so sleep tight tonight, my darling, in that penthouse where you dwell,
I’m used-up now, there ain’t nothing more I can say or do,
I’ve run out of yarns to spin, I’ve exhausted all the stories I once could tell,
so all that I can offer, is a silent fare-thee-well

image

pic from google

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