April 27th - Every Evening in the City,

vague reminders cry aloud over cold marsala beef.
Every evening in the city, we survive, waiting
day to day, scraping by with fears in hand.
A voice collapses as the night shakes free
and we grew tired, raging.
If we somehow, sometime find a way,
between the entrees and the decaf coffee,
to break this mold and seize this day,
still will we fall into the
same old song and dance.
We're standing in the foyer
reminiscing about the day before,
watching the cheap champagne go flat.
This is the sting of slowing down.
This is the scorn of nine to five.
This is the scent of dreams deferred.