After I'd already said, You better get off it.
So it was goodbye my trump and bitter pill,
B.B. King's "The thrill is gone" ironically
echoing from the plastic speaker of the transistar
I'd turned on to help me survive the packing
which was over so fast that I thought for a minute
this must be a dream.
Climbing into the taxi two hands full of suitcase, typewriter in my teeth,
I thought of her beautiful body and held back the tears, just.
I thought of the snarl in her final fury and shook my head.
I didn't have the foggiest where I was going.
What planet was I contemplating.
Louise was the kind of woman you wanted to meet when
you had two weeks and a fireplace and a
clear willingness to wear out your face smiling.
I'm not quite sure what it was about me that had
landed me the part of the juggler early on, but there I was,
as usual, getting out of the cab, teeth full of typewriter,
hands full of luggage and head full of mean thoughts about
the woman who'd fingered me out the door as the last act
of an eight year minor tragicomedy.
And there she was behind her big red eyes in the rain
in front of the Sylvia Hotel, titling her head slightly and saying,
maybe you know.
Ther was no time to say, maybe I'd like to because of the acrobatics required to drop my bag and catch my typewriter right at my shoetops
after my teeth forgot what they were supposed to be doing.
zonko (same journal)
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