As if a backwards dictionary entry, I stand about
with one shoe idling, look for the marks the cat
left on my skin. This life is a rigor mortis already.
And most people tell me I'm not even done yet.
You mean? You mean? More New Year's Eves
with those buggers and hats, streamers and glasses?
Yoy mean? You mean, cocktails at eight and oil
changes and lawn cuttings and thickets of theaters
and shows? If I can't have it any other way, and if
it's all the same to you, let's just have the theater close.
Some people tell me there's a glory train coming, with
my seat prepared and headed right for the sky.
('My bags is a'packed, I's'a ready to ride.
Oh me. Oh my!)...