I arrived at Lonely Town
with a photograph in my hand.
It’s not really a town, rather a state of mind
That permeates a man.
It’s a loneliness that aches in the heart.
Crowded streets where you meet
People much too busy from the very start.
Lives are for sale.
Lives of every imaginable kind.
Electronics vacuum the brain through
The ears and the eyes.
In Lonely Town no one is surprised.
No one sees the sky.
There are faces in the clouds that cry
And nobody wonders why.

I checked into the Hotel Lark,
Just across the avenue from the park
Where faceless folks walk happy dogs that bark
At squirrels. A digital billboard advertised girls.
In Lonely Town people pass each other by.

We once met at The Danube,
A jazz bar with a neon blue note above the door
That flickered on this September night.
I ordered a Campari and soda, tall,
And scanned the room for a glimpse of you.
I switched to several martinis, up and extra dry.
Cigarette smoke was thick with an indigo hue.
The band was playing a sentimental tune.

I showed the bartender the photo of you
He smiled and politely said,
“Yes, as I recall, she drank a Campari and soda, tall.
You are a ghost, my friend, a Deja vu.
You fell out of love here on a bitter night in September.
Don’t you remember?
She left Lonely Town long ago,
Long ago she left your bed.
Long ago, this very night, you leaped from atop the Hotel Lark.
You, sir, are dead.”

I left Lonely Town
with a photograph in my hand.
I was looking for you.
Long ago you left my bed.