THAT KIND OF PARTY.
It was not that kind
Of party it was
More of an orgy,
Well that’s what it seemed,
Max says, thinking back,
Trying to tell his
Latest girlfriend why
He’d been late, and she
Laying on the bed
Reading Hemmingway,
Looks up at him with
That oh, yes, of course
It was, kind of stare,
But says nothing, but
Turns over a page
With that flick of her
Fingers betraying
Her deep annoyance,
The red nailed fingers
Doing the I’ll scratch
Her eyes out if I
Ever find her, kind
Of motion. You know
I wouldn’t have gone
If Roudeux hadn’t
Insisted it was
For new writers to
Find publishers, Max
Goes on, allowing
His voice to proceed
As he makes his way
To the other side
Of the bed, watching
His woman follow
Him with her big blue
Eyes, the Hemmingway
Forgotten, the book
Face down on the bed
Covers. Who was she?
The girlfriend asks, what
Did she look like? Was
She all over you
Like the pox? You know
Me, Baby, I’m a
One woman man; I
Wouldn’t even look
At another dame
While I have you, Max
Says, sitting down on
The bed, looking at
The book’s title, For
Whom the Bell Tolls, in
Large print. Shame about
Hem, Max says, picking
Up the book, to go
Blasting his head off
Like that, must have had
The Black Dog blues real
Bad. The girlfriend turns
Over with her nude
Back to Max, her cute
Little ass seeming
To say closed down for
Business; don’t knock or
Ring just go away.