Where does it go, the worried face?
The pungent eyes, the chilly smile,
The train station stare gone flittering north
Without a trace?

It had what we call in our high ceiling
multi-windowed place with doors, doors, doors
character.
The photo-friendly mysterious billboard look
where you forget
they’re peeling.

Do expressions like these take trips,
along rusted Arizona,
stop to shake the big man’s hand
the circus ticket punched through,
come steaming off your lips?

I have no advice for you;
ach, I lie again!
Just know night from day
and when you’re really through.