We drove into town like two Spanish embassadors: a small chinese dog and
faux burberry umbrellas under each arm
and the incessant rain felt like like a pina colada (with a meyer's floater)
poured down the back of my shirt
and listened to the old dog across the street howl with the ambulance as we tried to fall asleep beneath the glow of the late show,
"Whooooo?," cried the ambulance,
"Whooooooooooo?" cried back, the dog.
And in vain you read my fortune from across the room, as I lay on the sofa with a pillow on my head.
We looked into long tail pipes as if into the throat of a dying (full size) poodle, who had just swallowed your last thousand dollar pinky ring
Which I told you would happen.
But instead of throwing the weekend away, we ordered champagne from the deli on the corner.
The Polynesian singer brought a pail of ice and two plastic flutes to our room
and I tipped him a dollar (was it enough?)
The windows were locked because I had called the concierge in advance.
and warned them you would try to jump out.
Did you read the pamphlet the mayor had published?
It said: suicide is against the law, and will not be recorded.
I waited at the space needle like an asshole, while you made out with the sou chef at the museum. Sure he ordered a blush and bought you a salad, but I was carrying your bag and your dog and at the least you might've called. anyway, I appreciate the Mondrian post card and the pictures of Andy Warhol but I still wish it had been me rather than him, there with you.
I know you went to the king's cremation in Capitol Hill. You took a handful of ashes, and I know because I looked in your coat.
I feel like you owe me for that day.
