3113. STILL SWIMMING NI THE VESTIBLULE

STILL SWIMMING
IN THE VESTIBULE
And why? What was that you said?
The speedometer, melting like words,
was speeding past eighty-five, and
our faces yet seemed in place. By
that lone fact, even I was amazed.
-
The old man played the dulcimer
at the edge by the pool. The tired
waitress, she kept singing as she
walked along : 'My love, he leaves
in fire, comes back in ash, a broken
pile of a man' - a sad, old Spanish
love song, she'd said. While other
cars kept arriving, bringing people to
the stage, we stayed in place, just
waiting, in what you called the
'vestibule' - to me, just another
place, some ante-room of Hell,
a closet in which to pace.
-
'Haven't you ever been in a place
like this before?' I asked, 'like
an open porch, from which to
see, but there is nothing there
to see; endless waiting, for
a play that never begins.'
-
'Why do you ask me these
questions?' she said. 'Why do
you as them, again and again?'