He never ever saw it coming at all.
- Regina Spektor
You imagine crying spells
in front of a muted TV
a pizza man at the door
several small animals underfoot.
There are two sets of books
in every room.
A cobwebbed chifforobe in the basement.
Then the scene shifts:
a man and a woman are driving along a coastal road
in a black convertible.
There is a newness to the sky
and to them.
They laugh through the curves.
Of course, anyone can play the extra.
Meanwhile, the siding continues to fade.
The foundation crumbles.
A toehold is lost.
And here they are again
sitting in a car
in a parking lot
surrounded by blue
and the faint wail of the lead singer from inside the bar.
It's cold.
Their bodies have become short stories.
Ballet dancers pirouette on a stage in the middle of a dream.
Someone enters from stage left with a picnic basket
a baguette and a bottle of Merlot.
The matinee is about to begin.
All eyes are on the principal dancer
who later will spend hours on the phone.
The potted plants have shrunk away.
There's half a birthday cake
in the middle of a faded mahogany table
a gravy boat
a violated cookie jar.
In the final scene
kids play in the backyard
of a house on the shore.
There's a deck with a high-foreheaded man
sitting at a small glass-topped table.
A tall woman has just gone inside through a sliding screen door.
There are elements of crossword puzzles here.
And short-term investments.
A laptop would do well.
