SUNDAY MORNING

I’m shuffling into the Outpost
in my slippers and pajama bottoms, no
shirt and gross hairy belly, it was an afternoon
recital of chamber music and the decorum of
classical connoisseurs is already thick with their airs,
and here I am half-nekkid unshaven bleary-eye’d, I wasn’t
exactly a good fit in my state of undress, the bluenoses avert
their eyes vibing me with their vaunted distingue’
One seated pretty girl mimics picking her nose at me like
I’m a disgusting street urchin, and so what if I was?
Those of us in the lower classes can take a little classical
now & again, in moderation of course, maybe if you’re serving
wine, say a Cabernet, that goes good with Schubert doesn’t it?
I’m confused, looking for Tom, surely he has a shirt to loan me?
From across the room he sees me and motions for me to
come back to his office, and once there he gives me chocolate
cake and I wonder how he can stay so slim and still eat choco cake?
Myself, I have Dunlap’s Disease (my belly done lapped over my belt) —-

I tell this dream to Janet as I refill my tea cup, she’d just read a magazine
article about deep thinkers (Mark Twain was cited) how geniuses have
the ability to shut the world out when in a heighten’d state of creativity,
I say, “Sounds about right, I wouldn’t know,” baiting her,
I suspect there’s more to this, she says, “You do that! You shut out the world
when you’re thinking!”
I concede and explain that I have to concentrate harder than most people
because I’m not that smart, and just to illustrate what a genius I am
I describe that waking dream that maybe was influenced by that Zabar’s
circular that came in the mail yesterday
and head off to my room to commune with my deep thoughts
and my tea