Heroes of the Age
The chorded chime of coffeehouse guitar,
little angels in their faulted fisticuffs
taken up at 4AM for police and refuseniks,
in the former time when something was
worth the drawing for.
In some nights I wish I could sit in those
smoke-filled alcoves of New Haven and Paris:
the men and their glass-stained filigrees of insight,
the women and their lipstick rum glasses, raised fists;
but there's too much life to live today
for all that wishing.