Carpark Monologue

I’m beginning to relate to
the liquid pulse of Faure’s tempo:
the persistent hum of words that
threaten to gate crash the show
at any minute with their used
car salesman’s pitch and patter.

I thought of cracking open
the promising Tempranillo from
Logrono and watching that Jim
Jarmusch movie again with the Brie
and pâte from last nights fiasco, until
I remembered I was out of crackers.

But no, I’m saving my cameo
appearance at the supermarket
until things come to a head, as
they always do when you postpone
the whole shebang until tomorrow;
until the wind starts to push and pull.

©️Orion Foote, 2022