feather

There was a poet at the bar tonight. Manuel from Spain.
He wrote these for me on scraps of butcher paper.

A deer, across the road.
She was not dead, though.
Her neck still burnt of the race.
The lights of my car were firm
while me, and everything else,
were trembling in the ice cold night.
(Feather) was her name, the name
of someone born in Missouri or Minnesota.
Like the deer.


As you know, in Latin,
your name means, "the one who
needs to be loved". Well, that's
a tautology. Someone will love you,
since you deserve it, like any human
and, more than that, since you're so beautiful.
Who would care less about your beauty
then me, your father in the law
of letters? That's what makes us, men
who love women without needing
to have them - God save us -
the better men a woman can afford.


Oh yes, let's get commercial.
When she was born - I mean,
when her eyes opened to real, adult
life - we already were here, which
doesn't mean much, since we all
belong to generations that never
had any power, the generations of
our parents - her grand parents -
always being the people in charge.
But they, she, were better fed,
they, she, grew taller, nicer, more
beautiful. Just look at her eyebrows,
so mighty and expressive. A long
life can be expected of her, and,
who knows, maybe her children will
become the next Lincoln, the next
Adams.

He does this for all the female waitresses.