Hello?

We are standing outside a bar that would be dingy if it weren’t so clean.

This is a dim building but tidy.

Inside, the floors are swept and the glassware gleams.

We are waiting for a man called

Henry S. Woodworth or Paisley or Brownley or

some other two syllable last name.

A cab slides up, eager but I wave it away.

Mary is smoking. No one does anymore.

I think she was in a movie I saw recently? Pamela was not.

Pamela is phony blond and bored. She is sturdy.

I marvel at the state of things, this peculiar evening,

then roll over and open my eyes.

It is the cleaning lady and I am late

out of bed.