where the electricity ended forever around 9:30
and I rode with a nice Irish guy to—get this—
Paradise where he played the piano keyboard and—as I’ve been proclaiming ever since—
I had a sandwich with a homeless person and a weasel. A sandwich dance.
The names have been changed to protest the innocent. Part of the sandwich
drove me home where—in the car beneath my apartment—
we had coffee and Jimmy Stewart (another throuple; throuple-prone).
Smiling apples. A year goes by. And then another.
When we are happy is it all gone?
