The Foreseeable Future

Too many nights I dreamt of bathtub gin and things that did not belong to me,
I was convinced that these reveries of our youth were fostering a subtle advocacy for thievery

It was okay,
It was somehow and evening of the score,
although of whose I was never quite sure,

But in these night songs of mine,
I was bathing in moonlight,
sea foam green satin gowns,
white fur collars and I was draped in pale pink pearls,

And in them,
I was always at the same party,
the same men in the same tuxedos,
the same affairs in the same corners of the house,

But I always made my way up the stairs,
down the corridor,
and to the seventh bathroom on the left,

it had pink tile,
just like Eleanor's,

Each night the same,
I turned the shower head,
and waited for the water to steam up the bathroom until it was good and chalky,
and I undressed myself,
all save for the pearls,

Those I would take with me,

And in the morning,
just before I rose from these grim notions of mine,
I would say goodbye to my hanging wet corpse,

it was always smiling back at me,
waiting to ask for a favor,

if nothing else