783. CADRE

CADRE
I spilled coffee on your Papillon! Egads!
Now what do I do? Here we are, sitting around -
West 21st Street where you live - on an old dark
couch you brought in from the Salvation Army
(I remember, I was there). Now, with coffee we must
discuss Bakhunin and Zinoviev and Trotsky too.
By the way, that green velvet robe is really not
enough - almost each time you move I can
clearly see your breasts. It's OK with me,
mind you, but you'd better check first with the
movement. No joke, ideologues have died from less.
Crestino, over there, the Italian brother, he's still
driving a taxi - 'up and down and all around,' he
says, 'the Capitalist bastard streets make me want
to puke.' I'm not sure what he means, nor why, but
no matter. It's these little things that count - that make
me keep it going. I read that 'Kapital' frenzied bullshit
you had us read - frankly, I wasn't impressed. He
reduces the world (somehow) to power and greed,
and he scoffs at all the rest. Not for me, really.
My God, I've spilled coffee on your Papillon!