Of a Friday Night Anaïs Mitchell

Just across from the hospital
Still in sight of the red lights
A couple blocks from the orthodox church
That's where the old poet lived
In his eyeglasses and his necktie
At the window looking down
On the young men passing by
On the fullness of the town

Full of them good time gamblers
Full of their restless wives
Full of them midnight writers
Out in the quarter on a Friday night
Out in the brightness of a Friday night

And the big horns blowed and the pianos played
And the music rose to the old man's ears
I guess those were the olden days
I guess those were the golden years

And now the town is empty
Empty as a mirror
Empty as the harbor and the barber's chair
Where did the old poet go?
I asked around
Nobody knows