At a pre-apocalypse,
post theater party,
we all wandered the confines
of Hacienda Kobayashi until
there you were and here we are,
some years down a road,
before our known road
turned footpath
between the garden
and the toilet
on those red spanish tiles,
a step or two
up from down
we sat,
with red wine sloshing,
between perfectly hopeful
Hollywood teeth and gums,
as down the gullet
here it comes,
telling our stories,
about waiting
on the moments
for the arrival
of our ship
coming in
at this port-of-call,
now abuzz with triumphs
of the past two hours
of other hopefuls,
(“Love your work!”)
and stevedore techies
drinking beer while
they push and carry
news in fabulous
theatrical voices,
all of us walking, running,
skipping steps
going up and down,
to the toilet,
or other unknown
rendevous rooms,
above, below, outside,
ranting on
about nothing
and everything,
while you,
in black
and I,
ala faux turtleneck
and Italian jacket,
sharing a kind
of dignified fashion,
dip into memory
where craft and dust,
and pineapple songs
end with a swift kick
from one of the travelers,
and time, and stories, and hopes all
collide in crystal air.
but in this flight and fall
there is a ring and a bounce
and a ring and a bounce
as a stemmed wine glass learned
its joyous fandango
and finished,
with a roll to the right
and a roll to the left
and a roll
to a righteous pose
and we gasp,
of course,
at The Big Finish
to our now famous
Wine Glass Incident,
and we learn
a new story
where we can hurtle through space,
and we can fall on hard surfaces
where we can still do tricks
singing clever bon mots
and lay as still as death,
without breaking.
