Borges said.
In all the world.
One man has been born.
One man
has died. Statistics.
All other insistences. That we are many.
In this Irish Pub beside MoMA.
I must be
getting sick. I must be getting
older. Unreasonable even
in my belief that
Austin, Michael, and I.
Eating cheese steaks. Are.
All of us. That agonized
WWI soldier
scratched to life wildly
by some German Expressionist whose name
we already don't remember.
Some dead
tortured artist.
The single man
who is always alone.
