Time is all he has left to waste.
Razors in his pocket, not for his face.
Pictures in his wallet, of his kids, not her face.
Not her mocking smile. Not her teeth made of lace.
Not her... Not him. Just a train ride to Boston.
A cigarette in the shadow of what's left of this place before the bell rings
                     it tolls for thee.

It's a lonely track in an alley.
It's another wrist run tally.
It's drops wet from his wrists.
It's those picture-frame kids.
No memory can fill the mist
in his eyes; It can't replace
the blood dropping like a surprise
party at eight. Tears don't fall from his face. At this pace...
Trains don't stop at Boston. They don't care about his kids.
They stop only till the next sad jazz-man pops in ready to erase.

The bell rings. He ceases to matter as the next guy shuffles in.