Maya

Outside the Yankee, I know I’m home, the pavement is green, shouts above the door jar, on a painted stone, my name scratched in scars, pitching roll of the sea, the sun going down, ignore all the has beens, On Princes Boulevard, I am done, hardly see what’s going down, won’t hear of blame, fresh linen and Eau de Cologne, the teeming avenue shapes, I follow beside the cars, the maritime sky atones, no more lonely stars, selling love on telephones.