There's a tree that each

year fights fall and it always 

loses its leaves last 

These fattened vultures 

aren't even waiting for our 

deaths to pick us clean 

The road, cracked and slashed,

carries a stooped shadow, aged

and stumbling along 

Wind carries words in

the park, bits of discourse from

wooing to sheer wrath  

Ghosts as echoes of

a time long past come to play 

when the train heads south 

A fine day has come 

to get reacquainted with 

a city once loved 

We celebrate the 

killers, from buccaneers to

bombers, without shame