Cut to the Left

Wayne H.W. Wolfson
 

The space between appetite and action is truth, my truth. The shorter the time between the two, the more honest the moment. From the man I had to be, to the woman she will become. We are all mourning something. Every twitch of the clock was a wake. I was in Berlin when I found out she was pregnant. One of those bars I like. No sign, no name.

Also alone, I blended in with a variety of ghosts.
“Ja, ja.”
I talked philosophy with the bartender. Not Sandra, the other. She didn’t like me, it was absurd. When she was on I didn’t even bother to try to talk. Sometimes that suited me too. I would watch her though. Automatically her fingers traced the shapes on her pile of napkins. Runes to kill a kiss. It was during her shift, my second drink, I found out you were back in the states, pregnant.

Imagine, unlike most days I had waited to open my mail. Life, time, will be
different for you now. Measured by nine months. Write to tell me about it. I wouldn’t know. For me, it’s always the same. Always the space between the pieces on a Blue Note, how much philosophy can be drained from a bottle.

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