They were never the favorites
Not the Carmen Miranda Chrysler
Nor Rockefeller’s magic boxes
Nor the Empire, which I think would have killed us all if she fell
They were the two young dumb guys
Beer drinking
Downtown MBA’s
Swaggering across the skyline
Not too bright
Now that they are gone
They are like young men
Lost at war
Not having had their life yet
Not having grown wise and softened with air and time
They are lost like
Cannon fodder
Like farm boys throughout time
Stunned into death
Not knowing what hit them
And beloved
By the weeping mothers left behind