breakfast seemed to come
earlier and earlier. the
bed would barely be warm
again from their curled
bodies. the four cabin-mates
had been the best of friends
for some three decades now.
there was the writer of music,
composing a symphony in front
of the fireplace, who now placed
upon her large page a small fermata.
there was the daughter of the man
who’d made millions in the candy
business. she was sunk deep into
the sofa snoozing. there was the
stockbroker who’d been pilfering
through his luggage looking for
the most appropriate pair of
socks. and then there was me,
the troubadour, a relative unknown,
so devoted to the writer of music
that he’d spend the last of his
days in obscurity, dipping his
pen into the light fantastic,
corralling words in clumps
throughout even the most
symphonic of her pieces.
