Edward G. Robinson,
in an apron.

Let us not forget this man,
this onetime massacrist,
now a nervous painter,
now a lonely cashier.

Fritz fries the city
in chiaroscuro rain,
and Little Caesar
offers us a tattered
umbrella.

His hurt face
his hurting-face,
are barely distinct,
a furrowed brow
a sparking heart.

They've come to remind us,
that artists are heroes
and stupid in love.