the ceiling fan was limping round and round,
creak and clack, not close to whirl
like a crippled dog tied to a stake
no longer caring what it's tail was doing
"Mmm.....that was wonderful, Lover."
on my back, hands locked behind my head,
I ignored her, but wondered,
did she call me lover cuz I was?
or because it was easier than keeping names?
from across the street, Wally's tavern
was flashing red neon code through the window,
painting pretty pictures on the wall
as a lone moth scrambled to decipher
like a wave from an Indonesian earthquake
I felt her stir, subtle, but rolling in my direction
and her cheap perfume slithered
across my face
"you asleep?" she purred
which is the only question you can actually
give a lie to with silence
"no."
one syllable, two letters
but my mind was writing an epic
how could anyone sleep with that damn worthless clock
playing bass to the crippled fan until the whole thing
became a freight train that never ends
while Wally frantically signals
that a wreck is imminent?
i wished i had lied
I wanted to smell my fingers to see if she was still there
but my head was using them and when I told my thigh
to keep it's distance, I found it too uncaring
to escape
sirens and lights screamed passed the window
in search of a felony and the moth flew over
to investigate
there was just enough streetlight
to make out her red panties slung
over the straight back chair left over from the 70's
and suddenly, I knew why bulls hated red
and took the dagger
i looked down at the lazy wave
making it's way to Hawaii and spoke
cuz i guessed it was my turn
"What day is it tomorrow? Tuesday, right? Don't you have to work? Yes, you do. You should get some sleep."
I answered my own questions like chocolate on ice cream
so it wouldn't lead to more
it worked, she grunted but said nothing
a half hour later, the seas were calm
as I insanely wrote songs
to the clock and fan marching band
while the sirens and lights returned
still searching for the wreck
i was hiding in cacophonous quiet
Wally turned off the paint machine
and the moth looked lonely, sad,
and trapped against the filthy window
as I finally smelled my fingers
to find she was gone
we both had suffered long enough
so I opened the window and out he flew
then the door for me
for I was too tired to fly, and too selfish to fall
she won't miss me in the morning
or hold it against me next week
for this is the way
of lovers and moths
down on Baker Street
