Happy Hour

 

untitled 40 x 30 cm Aquarell/Acryl/Dispersionsfarbe/Kohle

NEVERTHELESS

Looking for a little inspiration

in asphalt melting August,

the more unlikely the better, we attended

happy hour at the Sheraton Palace, beer a buck fifty  

a pop and free chicken wings in barbecue sauce. Debs and their

penguin suited dates; a few politicians for rent. Holt asking, “So,

what are your dreams?” Karin wanting to be a writer. Brad wanting

to be smart, smarter, smartest. “Albigensians or Alsatians. Jesus, Brad,

who cares?” I complained, not wanting to want anything, but lazy

that season, thus unable to do the hard work of being nothing. Soon

I was rapt with my own vision of make believe. Imagination  

an easy, graceful girl till she meets the critic who lives upstairs,   

then the fighting never stops; broken promises; threats of abandonment, etc.  

What about that first draft of a novel suicidally consigned to flames

in a rusty barrel, vacant lot, Providence, Rhode Island, pleasantly surprised

homeless people huddling up for some free heat? Or Byron

burning Shelly’s corpse on an Italian beach? Not exactly  

the same thing but what about that? Do you have an opinion, a theory?

Not in the mood to answer questions, afflicted with the munchies     

we stopped for breakfast at a diner on the outskirts. We were 

implausibly young. I can’t remember our faces. Nevertheless, nevertheless.