Ode to A Lounge

Your columns
must have been
the feet of atlas
holding a roof
not so eternal
and constantly
chipping off,
smelling the fireplace
and the cigarettes
of young poets
once the fireplace
was gone.

Balconies and sidedoors,
open to the headlights
on Amsterdam Avenue
and the sidewalks
where Nazareth
is born, and plays
are acted everyday
in drags of sunlight--

The piano,
a simple stranger in tuxedo
smiles on forever,
a humanophone--

each note a different voice
to deaf ears, divagating eyes.