In her suit and coat, she surfs the web
She cultivates her source
and, closing in, she rubs one shoe against the other -
Pumps that fall short of hiding her lovely toes.
Her friends say that dude is built
He's cute but has no game.
She shoos them out and checks her references
with cards, ink, and fountain pen.
She likes the flight.
It makes her head dizzy.
When the steel grip plucks her from her divan
And lifts her up, over
Singapore, and Dublin Bay
Valencia, and Rabbit Island...
She watches tiny kids sell Chiclets.
She sees millionaires drink pearls in vinegar.
When he loops her in a headlong rush
Under Hale-Bopp
She almost hears Hunter Thompson's Night Music.
Still, she's relieved to return home
So she can call her source again
Because she knows a wilder flight
Chasing the story, the story, the story,
always
The Story.
YOU ARE READING
Waitress at the Morpheme Cafe
PoetryScribbles sent in by morse code through the ether.
