How Bout I Just Recite the End

by Steven J. Serafiani

One day I’ll sip some coffee in some café that faces the sea on some street in Pescara and tell you all about it with a laugh;

Baby, there was a time when I couldn’t afford to have a bank account. A 20’s drifter who thought luck to be every other man’s word.  When I grinded out odd jobs in odd towns for a Shakespeare playbill . When I was just so damn angry. Angry at the sky for wearing a lighter blue. Where a small victory would be how polite a lit mag’s rejection letter could be. Drank and chased women and smoked and gambled. Baby, that time is rear view on some dusty scrapyard era gone by.

But now look baby, I got just enough in my pocket, got my third book going shinkansen, got luck and got you; the one who is giving this sunset fits. I’m full.

“I’ve heard this one before,” she said with a smile.
“Oh have ya baby?”
“But, tell me again.”
“How bout this, how bout
I just recite the end.”

And the sunset melted enviously into the sea.

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