Unpacking the post-party-depression literal suitcase yielded a following,
the following meandering of fades I expect to see but everyone has split, just so.
You know me, but you know me mainly here and nonely there,
which is where I just came from, and it is these pieces I carry here.
I left my toothbrush at the hotel,
the drunken effort to rally the plane failed
miserably, bag in hand, headache in head,
mysterious pain in leg while seated after
a second order of hash brown brownie
right angles of potatoes still glaring
at the United employee,
that is, when she dared to appear.
It all worked out, good time spent fuming
is best time took blood pressure read
one-twenty calm over eighty ego
and the race was on but I stepped
to the smoking lounge and watched
other people for a while
and brought home from the party
a sleep deficit, bad credit, visions of floods and failing
brakes and weakened walls
to hold them back—thus the letter
and a greater than average
degree of transparency.
Convinced a reunion it was a good idea despite
everyone frozen static, cramming for the test
all these years in the other room but
just stepped out for a bite but
now out of sight how long but
tray in freezer drift to vapor so
empty suitcase back to closet so
transfer contents to laundry and notebook
so see you soon.
I don't want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it
through not dying.
-- Woody Allen
This page was last modified on 2011 December 20. "Saturday Indoors" by John Sullivan is Copyright ©2003 - 2011, and licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.