Hardened to experience Like gum beneath a chair, I cannot explain This lasting hunger for simple fictions.
Yet prompt me as you tried so long ago To imitate the joker in the balcony Who shouts “I’m gonna be sick!” And launches a bucketful of mushroom soup Over the railing, To this day I forget my only line. The gestures, too. And the sound effects? The mind’s ear can’t hear them anymore, Let alone vibrate to them in Sensurround.
But I’m still slouching down in familiar dark, Feet stuck to the floor, waiting for the previews to end, Hoping that a moving picture conjures Something whose absence has become So powerful that I begin to think It’s really the presence of something else.
The aroma of our time together So many years ago lingers Like the faint odor of mushroom soup.