195

Frida

Wayne Wolfson By

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The streets tilt and whirl, the entire city gone dancing. Dirty flower petals litter the street, flags of a departed army. All desire is encoded in the blinking lights of the boulevard, it is now only a matter of knowing where to look.

Half a bottle gone and she disappears. I think of following. Pursue. I follow.

The streets tilt, no, it's me, a tragic misstep on the road to desire.

How did she manage to move that way, mired down in all this? That night she called my name, on top, she had managed a similar trick. Weekends are just the wake we put all the rest of our time into. I am uninvited, the guest of honor.

Again, she is gone. It is all right, I would always rather see her in that blue dress. I am being beaten down, a thousand hopes I can no longer articulate. Once again someone has stuck a pin in my doll and I must run.

Do not say "home , although it is, only for now. The thin cross silhouette of the window's frame has pinned a square of light from the roof top billboard to my floor.

I put a Blue Note on. Prayer without words.

I sit on the ledge looking down. A crumpled piece of paper blows around. Everything I think of, every time, it is all her. She has won.

I look at the paper, crumpled, light blue. I am satisfied to just sit and watch as it blows end upon end down the street accompanied by a choir of muted horns.


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