Not every boy who desires fame gets it the way he wants.
Not every flower, leaning vainly toward his own face
reflected in a murky puddle, gets to meditate upon himself
more than a few transitory days, before he, too, molders.
You should have stayed wild in some valley town
if that’s the life you wanted. You can’t have it now.
Too many people know you as the affable but obvious
mussy downtown hussy. Blown limp by any passing wind.