Curtains.

Are you lonesome tonight?
I am, and all I hear is the motor of some car
revving to its' delight.
The car has the driver, the driver, his destination.

What do I have?
Brass and dreams.

Awful curtains shade me from the dark
that eminates mournfully from the square
and I weep as I see myself in the dusty mirror
alone,
lost,
incomplete...