Walking a long way

All I ever remember
is what your face looked like,
and what his face looked like,
when he walked by me
down Third Avenue in April,
and I don't know who he is
or what he is,
but I remember his face,
just like all the faces I ever see,
just like all our haunted fairytales
and pleasant wet-dream-nightmares,
and those are the best,
those ones when you're in a gutter
or a drain-pipe
or a young lover's arms,
and you can see his marble eyes
reflecting in the sunlight,
and whispering to you in that silent way,
like eyes always do,
and that's when you begin to think
and fall in love,
and grow old with grey hair,
and change everything about your life,
and realize what a dreamer you've been,
and what a waste you were,
and how you thought sleeping in a gutter,
with a buzz,
was a good-great idea,
and it made you some-kind-of
brilliant poet
or depressed artist
or it made you believable,
and it all comes from that look you gave me,
that longing, petrified, sexy look,
and I remember your face,
even as you walk away
to visit the self-disposable,
self-writeable,
self-accountable vision of yourself,
and I knew you didn't make much sense,
or make much pleasure in my life,
and I knew you really just became lazy,
and satisfied,
and beautiful,
and that's how every day is for me now,
that's how I have to live my life
and drink my tea.