the dullness of his face
was like the melted candle
combined with the arthritis in my left knee
on the background of an old photograph
of Manhattan Bridge on the rainy day.
his bleak eyes didn’t reflect anything too.
his wife was serving us a tea.
she was about his age, but still had “that” gloss in her eyes,
coquettishly agile hips
and soft warm palms.
while I was drinking my tea
I was looking at them and imagining her
as a cheap cabaret dancer
and him as an old cashier machine
that was making clanging sounds
every time she was performing another immodest pa on the stage.
the stage was decorated by some Russian avant-garde
artist from the nineteen twenties.
that evening was breezy and quite boring.
stars had a fight a night before with the moon and went on strike
thus the sky looked dark, empty and hopeless,
like a soul of that drunk guy
who was sitting on the bench at the bus station.
after the second cup of tea
I thanked them for their hospitality
shook his feminine hand
furtively kissed his wife behind her right ear,
lightly patted her behind
the wind was getting stronger
so I decided not to wait for the next bus
I spread out my wings and laid on a course to Hoboken.