by Steven Gulvezan

Sitting at the end of your final road
In the bedroom of the house you built
A fence around
Sitting there, in Florida, at twilight
The scorching Florida sun sinking
In the semi-darkness of your room
You, wearing your famous lumberjack shirt
Sitting at the typewriter
Trying to channel “Duluoz” but finding nothing
All the books, all the editions, all the
Manuscripts and memories, arranged
So precisely in the drawers and on the shelves
You’re sitting there, sucking a beer deftly
Maneuvered out of the kitchen behind Memere’s
Back – or so you both choose to pretend –
Few things pass before Memere
Or Stella
Sitting there in your room, in the twilight,
Sweating, bored to hell, lonely, all the works
Codified as best as you could codify them
Ready for the bug-eyed archaeologists to
Dissect them
Perhaps pounding the keys on the typewriter
Any keys, any words,
Just to be typing…writing…
At this point it doesn’t matter what…
The ultimate spontaneous bop prosody
The fat old clown goofing on the edge of eternity
While Memere is speaking from her chair:
“I don’t want that dirty Allen here –
Never will he darken my door.”

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