there was a poor old man

who came in the wrong world


he existed as everyone else

in the world of public gardens

and bars and commercial cities.

because he was the sound of your violin

and he was the ink of your typewriter

and he was the color of your drawings and he was your secret lover.

but he wanted to be sure

that he was living elsewhere

behind paintings with Florentines

behind pages of books with sal paradise

behind discs of phonograph

with the endless complaints of Jazz.

because he was the sound of your violin

and he was the ink of your typewriter

and he was the color of your drawings

and he was your secret lover.

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