Out there, where I stare, buried in the harbor of the city
that never sleeps, the street cars of my father's time reside, dumped there by
well meaning people, who assumed we might never need them again when a wiser
man knows we always do,
I feel like a
streetcar abandoned, no longer on any track to anywhere, lingering under the
waves of passing ships and unable to lift myself out of the muck to feel loved
again; this is nobody's fault, just the unfortunate circumstance and the
inability to live up to what is most needed, and she must seek that love where
elsewhere with someone else, the old play coming to mind about desire when the street
car can't take me there, and I do not have the Ferrari that will, this is not
to say I'm not good enough; I’m just out of touch, out of time, the way horse
and buggy became obsolete with the automobile came, the streetcar unable to
carry me to where I most ache to go, to arms who are open for anyone else but
me, and I feel each wave passing over me here in the river near the city never
sleeps
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