Another passenger boards the autobus.
Fearing death at point blank range
by a man never met. Fear has set
and it rests in the sternum.
I extrocate myself from you.
I extrocate myself from you.
I extrocate myself from you.
The tickets to San Juan are not
first class. I will sit next to
Margaret and she will make a pass.
She will give me the name of her
hotel, the one on the package deal.
This after being dropped off at Dulles
by a woman with whom I spent my nights.
What to do, what to do?
The spine of the hardbound book, a
biography of Vonnegut, has a stiff
spine that I bend upon itself.
It crackles and I sit tight and
read, moving slowly away from the
girl, from the woman on a package tour,
from the modern superstructure of the
Dulles Terminal.