Day 151

Today's words:

Hail
Crown
Olive
Reward
Leaf
Necklace

All hail
The conquering hero, wearing a crown
Of olive
Vines.  His reward
For turning over a new leaf
And returning the necklace

He stole. He ripped the necklace
Off the girl's neck in the middle of a hail
Storm. Now the leaf
Of the branch on his crown
Glimmers like a reward,
Smooth as an olive.

The gold nugget was shaped like an olive
On the necklace
He stole and returned for a reward.
Now we hail
Him and place a crown
Of gold leaf

On his head. The leaf
Of the olive
Tree makes up the crown,
And the necklace
Is worn by its rightful owner after the hail
Of the reward.

What kind of a reward
Is it to have a leaf
Withstand a hail
Storm? The olive-
Shaped gold charm on the necklace
Is more valuable than the crown

We made him, a crown
As his reward
For returning the necklace.
It's gold leaf
And olive
Branch, but we hail

This crown, and bow before the leaf;
It's his reward for returning the olive-
Shaped charm and the necklace. All hail!

Day 150

Today's words:

Tie
Help
Scallop
Microphone
Ambiguous
Sunset

She fussed with my tie.
"You really need help
"With this," she chided. The edge had a scallop
On it that made it difficult. The singer crooned into the microphone,
Something about an ambiguous
Sunset.

Whatever that meant. To me a sunset
Is pretty straightforward. Now my tie
Could be said to be ambiguous -
Maybe that's why I needed help
With it. Now the microphone
Singer was saying something about a scallop

On the edge of the shore.  I think I'll enjoy a scallop
Crudo at sunset,
With the microphone
Turned off. It's a tie
Among the help
As to who is the most ambiguous,

Sexually speaking.  Certainly ambiguous
In this fashion is a scallop,
I believe - can't they change sex at will? Or not - I need help
Remembering the biology I learned in school in the sunset
Of my years as I was now. Perhaps I'll just tie
Myself to the microphone.

I'll rant into the microphone
About how ambiguous
Everything is these days. It's a tie
As to whether the lobster or the scallop
Will go into the sunset
First. Certainly we've been of no help

To either. Help
Me turn this microphone
Off. I don't want to spend this sunset
Broadcasting my thoughts, when there's an ambiguous
Scallop
To be eaten and my tie

Needs help, as do I; I'm not ambiguous
On that point. I don't need a microphone to call for a scallop
Crudo in this sunset race to a tie.

Day 149

Today's words:

Price
Vowel
Dish
Hobby
Entrance
Crash

She was watching Wheel of Fortune, as usual. The price
For a vowel
Was ridiculous. But why dish
About her hobby?
I'll make a grand entrance
Elsewhere, or I'll crash.

After the crash
The price
Of real estate went down for a while.  Still, an entrance
Into this market was tough. "I'd like to buy a vowel,"
Won't cut it, and it's a very expensive hobby.
Have you tried the new dish

At Nobu? It's a dish
That would never have existed before the crash.
It costs a fortune, but that's the hobby
Of the 1%; paying a price
For trifles that wouldn't be worth a vowel
In most places. But in order to properly make an entrance

You need to pay. The entrance
Fee alone is more than you can imagine, and the cost of a dish
Is just plain nuts. So she got her vowel,
Before the crash,
And guessed the phrase. Now it's time for The Price
Is Right. Game shows - that's her hobby.

I guess it's better than shopping at Hobby Lobby.
I'll never make an entrance
There, regardless of the price
Of their crap.  I'll take their dish
And crash
It to the ground, while screaming a vowel.

And what's the use of a vowel
If you don't have a hobby?
You can crash
Your car into the entrance,
Or bring a covered dish
To supper. A gift at any price.

So I painted over the vowel at the entrance,
So Hobby became Hubby. He's a dish
Who'll crash regardless of the price.

Day 148

Today's words:

Divorce
Skin
Colony
Cheese
Winner
Genius

"My divorce
Is final tomorrow," she said. Her skin
Was almond-colored. We were in a former French colony,
Eating cheese sandwiches. "I feel like a winner,"
She said,"Even though it doesn't take a genius

"To see I'm not. If I were a genius
"I wouldn't be getting this divorce -
"I'd really be a winner,
"And never have married at all." Her skin
Was beautiful, but I tried not to look and concentrated on my cheese
Sandwich. Life in this former colony

Was weird. Majestic buildings constructed when it was a colony
Sat next to run-down huts. Maybe a genius 
Could have improved things, but for now we just ate our cheese
And talked about divorce.
I didn't have too much skin
In this game. I was leaving soon. I wanted to come out a winner.

In a way this country hadn't been a winner
When it became independent  - no longer a colony,
But no more French money either. Most people had skin
The color of café au lait. It didn't take a genius
To tell they were mixed. But the divorce
From France meant more than just an increase in the price of cheese.

Even though it was imported from France, the cheese
Used to cost not much more than in France. The winner
Now was the producers; the divorce
Allowed them to charge higher prices, as it was no longer a colony
And therefore a free market. "Genius!"
They thought, "We'll skin

"Them alive!" Their own white skin
Was the color of some cheese.
If I were a genius
I would find a way for everyone to be a winner,
France and its former colony,
Even after the divorce.

So the color of one's skin can make one a winner
Or a loser. It's just hard cheese, the fate of this colony,
And only a genius can make a success of a divorce.

Day 147

Today's words:

Stool
Angel
Rebel
Shampoo
Guitar
Potato

The girl sat on a stool
At the bar. "I'm no angel,"
She said, "But I'm not really a rebel,
"Either. In high school I didn't shampoo
"My hair too much and I took guitar
"Lessons. Do you have any potato

"Vodka? I only ask because potato
"Vodka is gluten-free." She twirled on her stool
And played air guitar.
I had to admit - she did look like an angel,
And her hair didn't need a shampoo.
"You sure don't sound like a rebel,"

I said, "But then what do you have to rebel
"Against, apart from gluten, apparently?" I poured her a potato
Vodka. "Well, right now I'm supposed to shampoo
"The carpet at my mom's, but I don't want to get up off this stool.
"If I were an angel
"I'd be doing that, instead of day drinking and playing air guitar."

"So is that how you use those guitar
"Lessons, or do you still play? Rebel
"Or angel,
"It's a good skill to have. Another potato
Vodka?" "No thanks." She got up off the stool.
"I guess I'll go shampoo

"That rug. I've already bought the shampoo
"So I'd better use it.  I'm playing guitar
"At a club in the city tomorrow. You can sit on a stool
"And watch me play.  Then you can decide if I rebel
"Against anything else. I'll even buy you a potato
"Vodka. See? I'm an angel."

And with that the angel
Flew out of my bar, off to shampoo
Her mom's carpet. I poured myself a potato
Vodka in her honor and thought of her playing the guitar.
For a little while I'd had a pseudo-rebel
On my bar stool.

I did go see the angel play the guitar.
Her hair did need a shampoo this time; that was her rebel
Phase I guess. Afterwards we shared a potato vodka and a bar stool.

Day 146

Today's words:

Song
Exam
Microscope
Reform
Ferry
Conductor

I wrote a song
About what's it's like to take an exam
Under the microscope
Of people who don't trust you.  Like trying to reform
The life of the ferry
Conductor.

For what kind of life does this conductor
Lead? Singing his song
Back and forth on the ferry
Every day. So what if he passed the exam
For the job? They speak of reform
When all they want to do is put him under a microscope.

And under this microscope
He risks losing his job as a conductor.
That's what they call reform.
Replacing people with robots, a song
With the hum of machinery. They've a new exam
To drive the ferry.

But what about the people who take the ferry?
How do they feel about this microscope
And this new exam?
They love their conductor
And his song
And couldn't care less about reform

Unless it made his life better.  That's real reform,
According to the people who take the ferry.
They all know the song
And sing along. They don't need a microscope;
They know their conductor.
So how about that for an exam?

A new exam
Geared towards real reform,
Helping the life of the conductor
Of the ferry.
Even under a microscope
You'll still hear his song.

And in the end, the exam for the ferry
Reform wasn't a microscope,
And the conductor continued his song. 

Day 145

Today's words:

Pie
Skirt
Clay
Laugh
Nuts
Stadium

"I'll just have the pie,"
She said, smoothing her skirt.
Her eyes were dead, the color of clay.
Nonetheless, she gave a little laugh.
"They'd have to be nuts
"To think of building a stadium

"Here." But it wasn't a stadium,
It was an arena, kind of shaped like a pie,
If one had gone nuts
And worn a skirt.
You laugh, 
But it's uglier than anything, with clay-

Colored walls; more like rusted clay.
So, not a stadium;
An arena. Apparently there's a difference, but it's no laugh,
How they took peoples' homes, for a pie
Wearing a skirt.
It makes me nuts

How developers get away with crap, just nuts.
Politicians are modelling clay
To them, and anyone in a skirt
Had better run. Keep your stadium
Or arena, or whatever it is. I'll just have some pie
And try to laugh

At how horrible it all is.  It's not a laugh;
These guys really must be nuts,
With their pie
In the sky stories of blight. The clay-
Colored stadium
(Oops, arena) is what's blight. I won't skirt

The issue; we were robbed. You can skirt
It all you want but that's the truth. I won't laugh
About it, or ever set foot in your stadium
(Ahem, arena). I'd have to be nuts
To do so. No clay
Pie

For me; you can skirt the issue with those nuts,
As they laugh and play with the clay
Politicians building their stadium that looks like a pie.

Day 144

Today's words:

Mask
Wealthy
Press
Mite
Blonde
Spotlight

Wearing a mask,
As usual, the wealthy
Tycoon prepared to give a press
Conference, but it was all a mite
Too contrived, down to the blonde
On his arm in the spotlight.

Because he's always in the spotlight
He feels the need to wear a mask,
But that blonde
Doesn't care; she just wants to be with a wealthy
Man, even if he is a mite
Bizarre. Tonight she was going to press

Him to give her another gift, while the press
Followed them, shining the spotlight
On their every move. He might
Even remove his mask.
But what of he weren't wealthy?
Would he still get the blonde?

The blonde
Was a darling of the press.
Before her, the wealthy
Man had avoided the spotlight,
But now he just wears a mask.
So there's a mite

Of progress.  But just as a mite
Can bite, and cause an itch, the blonde
Could needle him to remove his mask.
The press
Would love that - to shine the full glare of the spotlight
On the face of the wealthy

Man.  Proof that even the wealthy
Can be brought down by something as insignificant as a mite.
So fix that spotlight
On the blonde
And hope she can press
Him to remove his mask.

The wealthy man and the blonde
Might talk to the press
But in the spotlight he'll always wear a mask.

Day 143

Today's words:

Cocktail
Fax
Hardware
Cuff
Lead
Legs

I set down my cocktail
And walked over to the fax
Machine; another flyer from the hardware
Store had just come in. I tugged at my shirt cuff
And sighed.  This can lead
Nowhere good.  Time to stretch my legs.

The legs
On the cocktail
Waitress were long and shapely. Was she trying to lead
Me on? The fax
Machine spewed out another ad. I rolled up the cuff
Of my trousers and prepared to bicycle to the hardware

Store. I judge a neighborhood by its hardware
Stores. Once gentrification sets in they're gone as fast as two legs
Can carry them.  Sometimes I'd really like to handcuff
These developers, but mostly I'll just have another cocktail.
I'm thinking of getting rid of my fax
Machine; all I ever get is ads.  E-mail has lead

To its obsolescence, just a Home Depot has lead
To the death of many local hardware
Stores. So no more fax.
Trying to attract the attention of the girl with the legs
To bring me another cocktail
And turning down my cuff.

I once got a silver cuff
Bracelet as a gift, but the relationship didn't lead
Anywhere and I sold it. Ah, here's a fresh cocktail -
After that I'm off to the hardware
Store, with the memory of her legs
In my mind. I'll take the fax

Flyer with me, just to ask them why they still fax.
Just an off-the-cuff
Remark might get them thinking. The owner was old, with short legs.
I know his store had once been in the lead
In the hardware
Business but that was long ago. I'll buy him a cocktail

And we can talk about fax machines and how they lead
Nowhere. I'll tug my cuff and ask about hardware,
While thinking of her legs and sipping my cocktail.

Day 142

Today's words:

Drum
Train
Fashion
Pants
Sunburn
Mustard

Day 141

Today's words:

Wool
Doughnut
Cork
Wisdom
Gears
Medicine

My sister knitted me a wool
Infinity scarf - it's basically a doughnut
You wear around your neck. It keeps the heat in, like a cork
Preserves a bottle of wine. I don't know who had the wisdom
To come up with the idea, but the gears
Do turn, and create a new medicine.

"Shut up and take your medicine,"
The school nurse would say, bandaging my scrape with cotton wool.
The gears
On the clock looked like a giant doughnut
As I counted the minutes to 3 PM and the end of forced wisdom
At school. The I'd explode, like a cork

Popping off a bottle of champagne. But cork
Is now in short supply, as it's affected by a disease. No medicine
Has yet been found and the collective wisdom
Hasn't yet produced results, beyond wool
Gathering and doughnut
Eating.  The gears

Seem to be stuck. Other gears
Are turning, looking for a substitute for cork.
I've seen all kinds of materials and shapes - even a doughnut-
Shaped one, with wax over the hole. But the search for a medicine
Goes on, even as cotton wool
Seems to be dampening the wisdom

Of the ages. And what does that wisdom
Say? What gears
Aren't stopped with cotton wool,
Or sound-dampening cork?
"If you're good and take your medicine
"I'll give you a doughnut."

Oh, for the days when a doughnut
Could solve everything, and wisdom
Was as easily obtained as a spoon of medicine.
That was before the gears
Rusted, and before the cork
Trees died. I tried to knit a wool

Doughnut scarf, but my mental gears
Aren't that flexible and the wisdom eludes me, like a cork
On a medicine bottle, covered in wool.

Day 140

Today's words:

Spotlight
Jacket
Reading
Wig
Forest
Custard

I stepped out into the spotlight
And popped the collar on my jacket.
Ready to begin the reading.
I adjusted my wig
And looked out over the forest
Of the crowd. "Custard!"

I yelled, "Custard
"Melts in the spotlight,
"So you're better off hiding in the forest
"To eat it." I was warming up and I took off my jacket
And threw down my wig
And went on with the reading.

I used to love reading
In bed, with a custard.
Now I wear a wig
In the spotlight
And a jacket
Of forest

Green.  I've been to the forest;
I loved reading
There too.  I'd take off the book jacket
So as not to smear it with custard.
I never imagined I'd wind up in the spotlight
Wearing a wig.

Why a wig?
You ask. To see the forest
From the trees, I suppose, in the glare of the spotlight.
Reading,
Eating custard,
And wiping my mouth on my jacket

Sleeve. So my jacket
Is torn and dirty and my wig
Is matted with custard.
I should just retire to the forest.
I don't need to give a reading
In the spotlight.

I found his jacket in the forest,
And, farther along, his wig. He'd been reading
Montaigne and eating custard, hiding from the spotlight.

Day 139

Today's words:

Passion
Oil
Farm
Cube
Salary
Estate

Farming's my passion
But if I hadn't struck oil
I probably couldn't have afforded to keep the farm.
Still, it's better than being some mindless cube
Servant, even though there's no fixed salary,
And I have no idea if I'll be able to leave an estate.

I guess I should do some estate
Planning, even though I've no passion
For those sorts of things. I don't have a salary
And who knows how much longer the oil
Reserves will hold out.  I might have to get a job in a cube
Farm.

Down here on the farm,
Or, as my brother calls it, "the estate,"
The only cube
You'll see is a bale of hay. We do have passion
Flowers, though, and they're lovely.  Just glad I've got the oil
Reserves so I don't have to scrounge after a salary.

Working for a salary
Instead of running this farm
Seems like slavery to me. Striking oil
Has allowed me to establish an estate
And to follow my passion
And not be imprisoned in a cube.

Sitting back, I drop a cube
Of sugar in my tea. I don't miss a salary
Because this is my passion,
This farm,
And the estate
I have due to that oil.

I'm not thrilled about all the pollution generated by oil
But without it I'd be working in a cube
All day, slaving for someone else's estate
While he paid me a meager salary.
Nope, this farm
Is my passion.

The oil revenues are much more than any salary
I could earn on a cube farm.
Here on the estate I follow my passion.

Day 138

Today's words:

Cheat
Briefcase
USA
Curl
Scream
Toothbrush

Finally watching Homeland on Netflix. Don't want to cheat,
But it's a bore.  This woman walks around with a laptop in her briefcase,
And she works for the CIA or something, fighting terror for the USA.
But mostly we just see her curl
Up in a ball, or scream.
We also see her use her toothbrush

A lot.  It's an electric toothbrush.
Good to know she doesn't cheat
On brushing her teeth.  She does scream
A lot, though.  Don't know what else is in her briefcase.
Once I saw her try to curl
Her hair, because I guess that's important in the USA.

There are other people who work with her for the USA,
But we don't ever see them use a toothbrush
Or curl their hair
(They're mostly men). Some of them try to cheat
The government. Everyone's got a briefcase
But she's the only one who get to scream

So much. I guess having her scream
All the time is supposed to show us how much she loves the USA.
Whatever.  And that laptop in her briefcase
Looks like some armored indestructible version, like her toothbrush.
And then she'll defy her bosses and cheat
And then curl up in a ball.

Sometimes she'll curl
Up and scream
When she's really been a cheat.
But of course she's doing all this for the USA
Because terrorists will take away our toothbrush
Privileges.  She'll slip the laptop back in the briefcase

And walk away. If she ever lost her briefcase
I'm sure she'd curl
Up around her toothbrush
And scream
Because the USA
Could fall into the hands of another cheat.

And that's pretty much the plot summary: briefcase, scream,
Curl up, bless the USA,
Use the toothbrush, cheat.

Day 137

Today's words:

Dinner
Indian
Joke
Lap
Passion
Immigrant

Another blind date - this time dinner
At an Indian
Restaurant. Fine by me - I like the food.  The guy, however, is a joke.
Definitely not my type. I stare at my lap
To keep from having to look at him. I'd like to feel some passion
One day. "So are you an immigrant?"

He asks. An immigrant?
Really? I want to leave this dinner
Now, but I control my passion
And stay. "Well, unless you're an 'American Indian'
"In this country we all are," I say into my lap.
How much longer will this joke

Go on? This joke
That isn't even funny. "Oh, I get it, so I'm an immigrant
"Too," he chuckles. He's dropped food into his lap.
 I have no appetite for the rest of my dinner,
But am thinking about dessert. Some Indian
Restaurants I've been to have passion

Fruit sorbet. "Oh, so you like PASSION
Fruit," he makes a joke
Of it. No, to him I'm just another Indian
Immigrant
Lucky to be out to dinner
With a successful creature like him, with food in his lap.

"Come here," he pats his lap,
"I can show you some passion."
I think I'm about to lose my dinner.
Now that would be a great punch line to this joke.
"The immigrant
"Barfed all over me in the Indian

"Restaurant. But she's Indian - 
"I thought she'd like the food. Instead she puked in my lap.
"Shows you can't trust an immigrant.
"I'll never understand their passion.
"They sure can't take a joke.
"That's the last time I take one out to dinner."

The next night I went alone to the Indian restaurant and had a passion
Fruit sorbet. I didn't need to stare into my lap, or laugh at a bad joke.
Yes, the immigrant finally had a decent dinner.

Day 136

Today's words:

Basin
News
Shout
Whisky
Evening
Cancer

He cleared his throat loudly and spat into the basin.
"Tell me some real news!
"Something to make me shout!
"Or else get me a whisky!
"The evening
"Is young and I could be dying of cancer

"For all I know." But he wasn't dying of cancer,
Despite the spit in the basin,
And as the evening
Wore on, he turned to the news
On TV, quietly sipping his whisky,
Pausing only occasionally to shout

At the TV.  He'd shout
At anything that annoyed him, or made him think of cancer.
That was his great fear - that and running out of whisky.
He kept the basin
Close by in case he needed to spit, and watched the news
At the end of the evening.

This evening
I'm going to be still.  I won't shout,
Whatever the news,
Even if it's about cancer,
And I'll leave the basin
Alone as I sip my whisky.

"Whisky
Can certainly help ease an evening,"
He said, and then spat again into the basin.
"And I know you'd give out a shout
"If you knew I had cancer,
"Wouldn't you? Wouldn't that be news?"

"News
"To me," I said. "Now give me some of that whisky.
"We're cancer-
"Free for the moment, so let's enjoy the evening.
"I'll give out a shout
"And you dump out the basin

"On the floor in front of the news on the TV. This evening
"We'll only drink whisky, and we'll shout
"Whenever we feel like it. Just keep the cancer in that basin."

Day 135

Today's words:

Fault
Tomb
Law
Entrance
Concrete
Seasick

So whose fault
Is it if we all wind up in the tomb?
What law
Says we need to seal up the entrance
With concrete?
The whole thing makes me nauseated, like I'm seasick,

Quite frankly.  And like being seasick
It takes a while for the nausea to dissipate.  It's like a fault
In concrete
Just waiting to break apart. Roll back the stone from the tomb
And free up the entrance.
It's not against the law

To do something different. I've studied law
Until I felt seasick,
But still needed to take those entrance
Exams.  If I didn't get into school it would be my own fault.
The library felt like a tomb
And I was encased in concrete.

But to give a concrete
Example is key in any law
Case, so I'd leave my tomb,
Feeling seasick
From studying, and try to find fault
With those for whom making a grand entrance

Was key.  But their entrance
Didn't harm anyone, and nothing was set in concrete.
It wasn't their fault
If they didn't study law
Like I did; they enjoyed life and got seasick
From actually going to sea, as opposed to living in a tomb.

And in my tomb
I barricaded the entrance,
Keeping out all others, while feeling seasick
At the thought of social interaction. Real life was too concrete
For me; I preferred to stay inside with my law
Books. That's my fault.

I missed a lot and we all end up in the tomb. That's the concrete
Reality of the situation. Yes I made my entrance into law
School, feeling seasick all the while, and now I know it was all my fault.

Day 134 - le jour de gloire est arrivé

Today's words:

Skylight
Prize
Fuse
Cemetery
Graduate
Wine

The moon streamed through the skylight,
Illuminating the prize,
Which would fuse
With the winner. But like whistling past the cemetery,
I was more focused on my desire to graduate
From beer to wine.

For wine
Illuminates everything, even the moon through the skylight.
When I graduate
I hope to win a prize
And not wind up in the cemetery
Like a penny in a fuse

Box. That trick never works. I refuse
To stop drinking wine
Even though it may speed my trip to the cemetery.
I'll still look up through the skylight
As I watch you bestow the prize
On some other graduate.

Yes, I'm a graduate
Of the school of hard knocks. And if I blew a fuse
Over this ridiculous prize,
It's only because you wouldn't let me have my wine.
There's a skylight
In the mausoleum down at the cemetery.

In that mausoleum at the cemetery
The graduate
Peers up through the skylight
Trying to fuse
His thoughts and deeds, while drinking wine
And thinking about the prize.

The prize
Was awarded at the cemetery.
Wine
Was served and the graduate
Was able to fuse
His two sides. The moon streams through the skylight

Illuminating the prize as the graduate
Stands in the cemetery. We refuse
To congratulate him as we sip our wine under the skylight.

Day 133

Today's words:

Spirit
Fare
Sneeze
Amplifier
Swing
Ladder

"What's your spirit
Animal?" she asked, casually jumping the turnstile to beat the fare.
I let out a sneeze.
"I dunno, a wolf?" A guy on the platform was fiddling with his amplifier,
Before taking a swing
At his guitar. A junkie perched on a ladder,

Observing the scene.  He slid down off the ladder
And approached the guitarist with some spirit
(For a junkie). He tried to take a swing
At the guitarist, but knocked into a "Pay Your Fare"
Poster to the side of the amplifier.
And then he let out an enormous sneeze.

But it wasn't a sneeze;
He puked instead and returned to his ladder.
Meanwhile, the amplifier
Seemed possessed by a spirit,
Spitting out all kinds of feedback. "Pay Your Fare,"
The guitarist sang, "Or you'll swing

"From the scaffold." I went to a particular swing
Club in Paris. Les Chandelles. Don't sneeze
Or you might miss it. One fare
On the Metro. Climb the ladder
Down to the dungeon. Show some spirit,
But not too close to the amplifier.

Because who needs an amplifier
At a swing
Club?  That's the spirit!
They say a woman's orgasm is like a sneeze -
Sometimes you get there and sometimes not. Like a ladder
To a goal. Now pay your fare

And get in line. Only those who've paid their fare
Will get next to the amplifier.
I'll climb the ladder
To the magic swing
And work on my sneeze,
If you know what I mean.  In spirit,

I'm still beating the fare, even though I swing
Both ways now, with the amplifier broadcasting my sneeze,
As I climb the ladder to the spirit.

Day 132

Today's words:

Drum

Motel

Blonde

Conductor

Accountant

Card.

The man tapped on the drum

Outside his motel

Room as the blonde

Looked on. The orchestra conductor

Wished he'd listened to his parents and become an accountant.

He'd like to have CPA on his card.

The man had used a stolen credit card

To buy the drum

But the house accountant

Wasn't on to him yet. He still had a day or two at the motel,

His room next to the orchestra conductor

And the blonde.

Who was this blonde?

She'd paid with cash, not a card.

He and the conductor,

All checking in at the same time, he clutching his drum,

Had watched her pay for her motel

Room with cash, which the accountant

Readily accepted. He was pretty sharp, that accountant,

And he'd seen women like this blonde

Before. They all came to his motel.

Some paid with cash; some had a card.

He looked at the man with the drum

And the conductor.

He didn't say much. He supposed the conductor

Looked down on him, a lowly accountant.

If only he'd known the truth. The man set down his drum

As he watched the blonde

Take a card

From the desk and head for her motel

Room. "This motel

"Is a strange place," thought the conductor.

He, too, took a card,

And saying goodnight to the accountant,

He went out towards his room, following the blonde.

The man with the drum

Followed them both. All in that seedy motel run by an accountant:

The conductor, the blonde,

And, using a stolen credit card, the man with the drum.