That night I lay on the floor
spread like a drunk, on an old mattress.
I had fashioned a canopy out of an old sheet
to keep the sun off my head when it rose,
but it was white and thin so I doubted it would suffice.
That didn’t matter much.
I lay awake staring at the dipping centre,
imagining a night sky
or some ancient curtain of a pharaoh or emperor of Rome.
It was a pleasant fantasy.
Then I waited for her .
I knew she wouldn’t come
but I waited,
in part out of ritual I suppose
whatever that meant.
I’d heard her sing that night.
She must have chosen that song, those words.
How could she not have?
It was a small club
wherever you looked you could name all the faces.
She chose the words and either didn’t think of me or did.
I’m not sure which would hurt more
in a club that small.
Maybe that’s what I was waiting for.
answers only she could bring.