I see this skinny
punk kid.
Got hair the color of
Froot Loops and she's wearin' a T-shirt says "Leave Me Alone."
I see this dark-haired actress
on a Broadway stage. I know her. I see her all the time outside
the Plymouth Theater, Forty-fifth Stree.
An elegant woman.
Rich type. Fendi bag, looks like. Jewelry.
Beautiful hands, too. Except the little finger on the
left hand has no tip.
A man whose
sex urge is still industrial strength,
without the desire.
Who misses the disco scene, and
feels about the disco days what
hippies must feel about Woodstock.