WITHOUT THAT HAND
Now, I must stand back, watching the water.
12th Street ain't nothing without you. We used to
stand tall, we used to hold lilies. You'd say they were
the flowers of death, and I'd reply, 'Well, then, let's
live it up.' Meaning 'we ain't dead yet,' the now was
all we had. Their was music from the crappy box again.
You'd say 'You're an oxymoron, you know that?'
I'd reply, 'Half again a good as a moron, I'd figure.'
When we called out for another drink, the waiter brought
a tray? My semblance of blanched Nature now nettles.
Two-fifteen, and twenty matchbooks later, we were
still in place; adjusting to only the new light which was
all artificial. Some Druids did a moondance on the
adjoining porch. They looked as natural as sin. A lady
was holding onto the rail. Without that hand - yes,
and I swear - she'd have fallen right over.
The new dawn was late arriving,
and I was twenty-two.