From Saturday at rehearsal

The men fallen to the wayside.
Sad casualties of the stifling RED.
Everything beautiful is gone.
Broken and charred, I stumble out,
grey encroaches the white.
I am. I was. I will.

And this.

June light as the moonlight,
expanses of cotton dully glow,
cigarettes alight, laughter illuminates the night.
I take her towards the bridge,
the revelers noise and figures growing dim.
Day-Glo spraypainted messages--
(Tom '86--Utica goes down--I love C.W.)
--hardly visible in the dark.
The cold should breed unease--
but she is warm, and offers invitation I am unable to accept.