You verbally acknowledge
nothing, ask “Why do
goth people all look
so sleepy?” I shudder,
wondering on which side
of the fence you meant
that to be. This creepy
slide-show has been
such a gas, but we’re
both exhausted and
hankry (as you say,
being both hungry
and cranky). To
get here, I’d limped
the entire way, half
a block behind you.
Whew! A San Fran-
cisco taxi-cab oasis
isn’t a mirage.
Cab-light on or
off, it’s always
a gamble. You
were waving for
miles; refusing,
however, to show
a lick of leg. Fetish-
wise, that’s how the
cookie always crumbles.
My sigh is just a little too
audible, seems to cook the
spirits of the glazed-over.
“A ratchet, a whisper,”
again, just barely into my
ear—a feather duster,
not a french tickler—
“another ratchet,
another whisper.”
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