66 W
by Guy Yasko
He said he'd meet me at the Lyric before curtains.
For drinks.
Only he didn't.
Which was OK.
The seat was softer, roomier
without him.
Buzzer rang, doors closed.
His loss.
Rusalka was clearer.
More resonant. Vibrant.
Better.
Without him.
He showed up between acts.
Said nothing.
Smelling of cold
French cigarettes
someone's perfume.
Walked out
Drove off
Blew by my exit.
Through prairie, through desert.
On the wings of song.
Bought a bikini in Venice.
Too cold to wear it.
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I read/enjoyed this last night.
(I bet a lot of people read it/liked it... but didn't say anything...as I didn't...last night)
Good stuff. *
Thanks for the reads & *s. Much obliged.
The penultimate stanza is perfect. Then comes that last one, which makes me go huh?? and feel a kind of vacant loss all over again.
Seriously like this, Guy.
*
Thanks, Michelle. Nice to have you hear.