The next morning, the sun forgets to rise,

my derby’s full of rain and old goodbyes.

I button up the silence, creased and gray,

shuffle down the empty street—no band, no parade.

A paper boy folds headlines into birds,

they flutter round my cane like broken words.

I tip my hat to shadows getting long;

they tip theirs back, then tell me I was wrong—

love isn’t lost, just left on stage too late,

still waiting for the tramp to close the gate.

At the picture, the shadows are singing,

a tramp in the silence is softly swinging.

He tips his hat to the moon on the screen,

footlights bloom like violets in black-and-white green.

The piano weeps, the celluloid sighs,

laughter falls slow from the corner of eyes.

Hold the last frame when the house lights rise—

love stays flickering, love never dies.