Tuesday, July 9, 2019

The One

The one in the loft over on Greenwich Street who used to sing Brecht songs in the moonlight. The one on Horatio with the red hair and the broken nose. The one in the balcony of the Palladium. The one from Texas in the Pickwick Arms. The one from New Orleans in clown shoes. The one with the tattoo feather running down her forearm. The one with the boyfriend whose motorcycle was broken down in their bedroom. The one with the ballerina neck from Maine. The one whose mother died the year before. The one who tasted like tapioca and copper. The one whose father was drinking himself to death. The one in the bookshop. The one in the liquor store. The one in the bar. The one in the airport. The one with no window shades on Ludow. The one on her way to Block Island. The one from London. The one who died. The one who moved to Oregon. The one who opened a bookstore in Vermont. The one with gin in her raincoat. The one. The another one. Then no one. The one.

No comments:

Post a Comment