Life Without Sharon?
It's New York City, 3 a.m.,
Sharon's not home, I am noteless
and without phonecall. The newspaper
in my lap's filled with dead wives, my coffee's
cold and the clock ticks straight from the void.
My mind's a maze of emergency surgery rooms
and city streets whose every corner's
a slimy sneeze and obscenities wiped on the sleeve
drip to the pavement; tick, tick, tick.
If this were the movies, she might
hover over me now, goodbying one last time
and stretching for the silver reaches
she vanishes through my hands.
If last night was the last night we made love,
would I go to work in the morning, make dinner
and sadly set the table for two?
Would I go West, be the money grubbing Cheyenne
bus station apparition of red eyed road map
alcoholic floppy shoed, hands in pockets blues?
Get a dangerous high paying job or become
the religiously modest sad story and silent sufferer;
the ultimate object of the pointed finger, the guy
whose got it worse?
For tonight, I'll either get drunk in a downtown bar
and nod all night my tragic knowing or call an all night
radio show and request our favorite song.