Reworking a poem at nineteen

The grand señor prefers his barako black
Now & then, a whim of milk drop, or sugar cube
&, like the regular chime of the antique clock,
he goes about his act like Chaplin with a hat
He stands out, like a white flag, in a red crowd.
He strolls, cane in hand, with an ancient grace
of one who feels the world’s in parallel rhythm
Every footwork on b/w marble floor a stratagem.
His woman’s properly coiffed, has impeccable diction
This tango player’s in perfect unison, like sun to moon.
But, alas, his time is up, when a thug in uniform
breaks into his ballroom dance in martial fashion:
“O the world has left him behind.” O Gotterdammerung!

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