George R. R. Martin
I take it to heart
even though I am not walking on a century of snow
and no redhead speaks to me
I do not know my city
not like Raymond Chandler did
not like F. Scott Fitzgerald did
somewhere nearer the bottom I have walked
have listened to stories
have watched men cough
knowing with them Death stood by
just out of sight
I have the notion the city is like that
anything important stands in shadows
waiting to pounce
just when you think it’s safe
to draw another breath
“here, old friend,” the city whispers
“walk this way with me
another step or two”
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