Remember that breakfast one November — <br />Cold black grapes smelling faintly <br />Of the cork they were packed in, <br />Hard rolls with hot, white flesh, <br />And thick, honey sweetened chocolate? <br />And the parties at night; the gin and the tangos? <br />The torn hair nets, the lost cuff links? <br />Where have they all gone to, <br />The beautiful girls, the abandoned hours? <br />They said we were lost, mad and immoral, <br />And interfered with the plans of management. <br />And today, millions and millions, shut alive <br />In the coffins of circumstance, <br />Beat on the buried lids, <br />Huddle in the cellars of ruins, and quarrel <br />Over their own fragmented flesh.<br /><br />Kenneth Rexroth<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/between-two-wars/
