What am I supposed to do?
Some fine old last-guy-in-the-bar
Jazz plays.  It tugs me toward
A time when I was without cares,
Impoverished, moving with a practiced
Smoothness down the city's clotted
Sidewalks to the market for a fish,
Possibly a pound of dates, a stop
To sit among the bums and watch
The ferries cross the bay with seagulls
Screaming overhead.  

All the crappy old apartments I had
Lived in were torn down, and I don't
Move with smoothness now.  The bums
Have been pushed from their places on
The bluff above the bay, replaced
By wealthy gays and matrons.
That to which I would be tugged
Is gone.  There's nothing I can do,
But sit and listen to this jazz,
The last guy in the bar.