Tragedies


I love tragedies
swaying dresses
on empty train platforms
disowned sorrow
fancy men in expensive suits
who don't own anything but their suits
and a last pack of cigarettes,
lonely salesmen like those immortalized by Ginsberg
worn down siting in cafes, bars and diners
living in a burning world;
men who can sell empires with words,
know everybody, bring the unfamiliar close,
but pawned all their suitcases;
who in their hearts find endless empty sorrow
but don't know where It's from,
and who are too scared to ask 
for what they really need