Key
28 Key My Sunday morning nightmare takes me beyond mystical towers and strident boulevards to the underground whose priestesses lurch the halls, shaking their fiery coifs around the latest deranged advisories that they have to spew onto the air to help me find my way to the hotel with my luggage and your note about the errand you needed me to run and waited to hear about from the cell phone that was not there in my gray coat pocket. Once the Hag blurs into her burning bush all I can do is reach up to the breeze from the fan above the sheets, turn out right foot first to grab the floor, and step down to the stoop and the NewYork Times in the azaleas. Something that’s fit to use from these oracles relating to the happiness I seek early among my doings back in this life comes when I put the pot lids I left to dry, on the rack beside the sink, in the pan drawer under the stove without causing a clatter to wake you up. This triumph of sanity, if not civility, can set things right from having gone all wrong until I came. I sit out on the chair at the wrought-iron table whose potted begonia centerpiece looks saddened by a hint of rain against the hazy blue, and then a few drops on the Arts & Leisure and little whorls that pock the cream in my tea. Both cats already crouch wherever they go and I decamp from my hiding place 29 to pick up at the sequence from the outset about the woman with the bright red hair. The scene broke off with neither of us coming before we had to grab for our street clothes. I ponder going back to try again. She wonders where she put the straw hat she brought to keep her glossy hairdo from too much sun. I ask her if she knows where I put the key. It wasn’t in the left-hand camel-hair pocket packed full of coins and dollar bills and cards from the people I met all day the day before who showed me how to get to Baltimore and its boutique flophouse district near the Métro I had to go to without key or clue to find out where it was that you had gone. ...
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