Round and Round

  Describing her state of vision for the form.  Round and round, we went.  Out past socked in.  Clouds to Cleveland.  Her man growing muscled again from emaciated swooped over, the antennae on his head, wires down the back of his tank tee.  She started to lose it as she walked towards the record player.  Then mad, fuckin'drugs.  His hand hovered over hers over the groove knifed in rows and rows of sound.  Callouses and gunpowder and oil and grass.  The green stains from him wiping off our knees.

     "Cheers Jane." 

     Stuffy old man, "Keep the calm," she gave a little wave.  "He'll be fine with the gin and cranberry juice," she wiped her hands on her butt and put them together like the church and steeple.  "How are the apes?"

     "They call it," voice lowered, heads magnetized to the news.  "The women's room."  Just breathing and blank looks not looking abandoned, but like midwives feeling for kicks.  "One seems to have a cold." 

     "Sniffling?" 

     "Maybe just misses you Dr. Goodall."  A surprised look.  "How ON EARTH could you have known that?"  The flask of cherried liqour was passed around slowly then savoring five minutes peace.