Hurry Up, Please, I’m Dying

“Why, then ile fit you!”

Heronymo’s mad again.

Juking my way down the street,

withering all the way, through

the market, I wipe my mouth

with my hand.

“It’s not going to make that much

difference, you’ll still look that way.”

At least, the bananas were almost 

perfect, for a change 

I hear Antarctica is the place to go

this time of year.

No more for me, thank you,

I’ve seen enough, I’m stuffed.

I’ll just enjoy the storm coming in,

the necessary consumables, 

the music to my ears, 

a comfortable seat,

the air on my skin,

my head in the clouds,

up the donkey of the universe,

peeking from behind a mask,

in imperfect harmony with

everything, a piece of flotsam

hurrying downstream to the source,

that which is without beginning or end,

if you can understand those words,

you’d be home by now.

“Clever little Runyon. You’ll never

be happy.”

“That’s a little harsh, Harry…can’t you

get another job?”

“I gave your mom a job, Runyon, and

she gave me one, savvy?”

“Look through any window, Harry,

what do you see?”

“I see a universe in a drop of water.”

“Have you ever heard a Who?”

“I’ve seen some of them.”

“I didn’t know you spoke French.”

“ Oui, I do.”

Postscript:

“Clever girl.”