We Get Something To Do

It Seems To Me That On One Page I Recognized A Portion Of An Old Diary Of Mine Which Mysteriously Disappeared Shortly After My Marriage, And, Also, Scraps Of Letters Which, Though Considerably Edited, Sound To Me Vaguely Familiar. In Fact, Mr. Fitzgerald (i Believe That Is How He Spells His Name) Seems To Believe That Plagiarism Begins At Home.

We Walked At Night Towards A Cafe Blooming With Japanese Lanterns And I Followed Your White Shoes Gleaming Like Radium In The Damp Darkness. Rising Off The Water, Lights Flickered An Invitation Far Enough Away To Be Interpreted As We Liked; To Shimmer Glamourously Behind The Silhouette Of Retrospective Good Times When We Still Believed In Summer Hotels And The Philosophies Of Popular Songs.

Love Is Bitter And All There Is, And That The Rest Is For The Emotional Beggars Of The Earth.

Pronunciation Has Made Many An Innocent Word Sound Like A Doctor's Orders For A Stomach Pump.

Why Should All Life Be Work, When We All Can Borrow. Let's Think Only Of Today, And Not Worry About Tomorrow.