It crumbles.
It dreams.
It waits.

A little bit of its old face
has become visible
now that the newer parts have
crumbled away.

Those new parts were put on it like make-up
on hardened and aging *****.

Some nice ladies said it would be better that way.
They said it would be more dignified for her
and for her children
and for everyone, really,  
if the hot obscenity and blood
of her quick, easy childhood
were obscured with wrought iron
and pastel colored paint
and flowers
and fountains.

But then the nice ladies all died
and we decided not to do that anymore.
We saw her with her glammer and sharp edges
mostly worn away,
and we saw her with our own eyes
and we saw that she is
finally what she really is
and she is genuine
and she is truly beautiful
and we love her like this.

She has some
fresh, young drunkards
with fresh, young haircuts
and lots of fresh, young
optimism
who stand out and starkly contrast
the deeply lined, rotten old *******
who hold out the torches,
for all the good it does.

It’ll hold.
They say it’ll hold
inside the cool, dim cafe
as they drink
without
reason
or need.

And the pain-wracked,
wretched old things
are also there,
and they
drink more
and  they drink
much better.
They’ve had a lot more practice.

And they wait.
And they dream.
And they begin to crumble.

Don’t look too closely.
Don’t see.
Fools see.
Fools look for such things.
Fools celebrate these things as if they are immune
to the cold, black river
to the dry, coughing crypt,
to Lethe.

Don't look too closely
at the places you intend to sleep.

It really isn’t worth it.
Not if you like sleeping, anyway.