by Eric Rubelmann
The ground has grown colder
The flowers though grow taller
Fail to emit a scent of serenity
The clouds still allow sunshine
But the pallor of your laughter
Is what one would reserve for a scream
My tattered peacoat still warms me
The trumpet player plays a solo
On a street soon empty ‘cept for you and I
Your gloved hand still holds mine
But the grasp is one for a ledge
And I feel I’m slipping to the ravine
An accordion grinder plays so gently
The ash from a cigarette finds the wind
The street light changes so slightly
And the steam arises from beneath a manhole cover
And like a ghost I fade into a dream
