Yes, yes, thought Quinn, as he examined the cheque.
She held her long instrument and played like a wreck.
Did he drink, think? In that room? Such is his weeping & wailing
which could not be translated. It makes no difference, his failing
to listen, old stories, poems, the objectives
that litter his list. He’d like to be a detective
actually, that might be fun, thinking on his feet.
Eight out of ten people in costume on the streets
of Manhattan. It was drizzling. Where he had seen
a mummy smoking a cigar, and asked him for directions.
Pointing a wrapped finger, Grand ahead, at the intersection.
Thank you, have a happy Halloween.
That was two years ago, he thought, later concluded
on that cold bus with Antoinette, the vocalist.
Repeating lights on the turnpike.
Back in touch with the city & my ghoulish self
raising a limp glass to good health.
Say I’ll try but I won’t like.
