Frank Greene Poet Ballad

A Sad Face Without a Story

Time clock,
               Baby
Stuck on the inside
out on the black bench,
	       Baby.
Never going back like the good old days
like the jinxed rinks, cut out
like watersheds.

It’s so obvious,
	       Baby.
That you want the top shelf
honey, lookin’ like a million bucks.

Those rose pedals for the first time
love, in the attic up top,
               Baby.
For the first time, overlook the city
with a new clock.
For hours we sat unlocked,
waiting for the Sun to show up.

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