THE GUY FROM NEW DYSTOPIA,
OR WHY WOMEN ARE GLAD
THAT MIRRORS DON'T TALK
Such was the conversation that night
at Vacky's Bar and grille. We came so
close to finding a decision about what
to do with the rest of the world. Rita,
the girl with the order tray, kept bringing
our foods around - small things, tasty
in their way, washed down with a Stout.
Each time she did that thing with her
smile, I swear it brought her another
dollar a mile. I said, 'You should get
paid mileage!' She laughed.
-
Before one-am, we'd already gotten
a snoutful. Time and all its energies
running on. The lights were dimming.
At least it seemed so. We slowed it
down, with three hours to go. Then
the bagpipe guy started his crap,
some dirge about a Joycean funeral
tune, the guy from Dubliners who
was dead - that Irish patriot thing.
-
Parnell! Parnell, yeah that was the name!
I tole her again, Rita, about the game
and said if I was a feather duster I'd
love to clean her off. Ha Ha. Everyone
was laughing good by then. I forget the
rest. She got rich though. I bet. It was
over, before it started. And, yet.... I
can still thing of her and smile.
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