He drives a white I've-a-complex sports car, and wears a jersian leather jacket, and a tough guy accent. He ambles, bow legged,to the box office. The ******* his arm has a kind voice And gently lit eyes, like flickering candle light. She ventures a question. His dismissive tone comes harsh to her hopeful ears. I watch the light fade, Like the candle is in its 7th hour, now burning low, and the power, is still out.