His favorite part of the day was the end. When he could pour himself a drink and listen to sad music. “Sad bastard music,” is what his friend Dave called it.
The trees make a fast sort of rustle, like fast moving fingers on the pretty side of the piano. The air conditioning: hums like twenty first century noise shadow.
His head light and his fingers losing grip, he looks for excuses to go to bed, he finds none in modern day America. Working less hours is obviously out.
The breeze on the sides of chimney spires
His two-week unshaven jaw, his two button unbuttoned flannel, he can never seem to get it right. The moon is a bow on the back of a black dress.
He wants to take it off
unveil the nudity of the universe.