for Steven

The prostitutes have gone to bed,
the city has given up its dead,
the neon glows, the shadows browse,
derelicts are curled in alley louses,
rich men laid in penthouses,
the wise are sleeping,
the good have said goodnight,
the bad have said bawnswa,
and the trash is waiting on the city law.

The city's as old as ash,
the city's as hot---as cold as cash,
and the cement seems there to last,
and we'll all come to grass.

And we're at the counter
with our small change and powder,
and my elbows are worn
and everything all around is sore,
and we're tough and seen it all,
and there's no past, no timorra,
no future in it kid,
so lay off all bets,
and we let the drinks be set,
trade the day, make the night pay.

On the farm I'd have been younger,
and cut stones wouldn't be your hunger,
and anywhere at all we could have had it all,
but not nowhere, not notime, not here,
So why the whine let it be a beer.

How many cards in a pack?
Fifty-two.
How many steps to a stair?
Why should I care.
How many cigarette butts make a life?
God, why ask.
How many dates in a love?

University of Oklahoma
Norman, Oklahoma
1990 February 2