I read one of the little rascals died.
He drove a cab and lived in a motel.
All the promise of youth lived out
so fast and so young.
The fresher the rose,
the more the pain watching it wilt.
Tears cried early
take the longest to dry.

Was his Machu Picchu
a bawdry neon sign?
Did his first fare deliver him to hell?
Did his rosary break in the dark
scrambling the pearly beads of Glory Be
across decades of yellow linoleum?

High rent
castles in the clouds.