I don't know how I did it all those years. Wine deliveries on Mercer Street. Everything I own in a laundry bag on my bed. Lemon-lime leaves fall to their knees in a newspaper breeze. In a van south of the Sudan sitting sideways and eating bunny chow. The hot pavement summer in São Paulo. She's out back spray painting an old pair of wedges. She needs glitter for her flats. I'll take a seltzer and we can have the rest of that Baba au rhum. Flash to the front window of some faux-French café. I'm talking to the director of some Quaker-affiliated, nonsectarian organization and making a mental note of all the exits like an acrophobic on a red-eye.
"This is the hunter’s badge of glory. That he protect and tend his quarry. Hunt with honour, as is due, and through the beast to god is true."
Now its just me and a portrait of Saint Eustace sharing a digestif on the side of the road. It's a long way to Bassano del Grappa. Its late and dark on the Autoroute we're all laying on the floor of a cargo van so the Gendarmerie won't see us. Take us to the nearest Formule 1 and leave us for dead. We'll eat in the morning and steal bag from the bread.
"Come over to the window, my little darling. I'd like to try to read your palm. I used to think I was some kind of gypsy boy. Before I let you take me home."