. . . thas all  was callin it a night

he was gonna write that

went to the clipboard leaning at his thigh to scribble it  kept a pen with it

                                                                                      No deal no pen nopen nopen

lot goin on there 

               must have slipped from the clip onto the bed

he roughedup the blanket the sheet

                                        nada

whered it get to

he had no clue

                 no clue  Huh                                       

the books he brought to bed

                              Sirens’ Call Hit Makers Campo Santo The Metaphysical Club Wounded Knee Your Inner Fish he was ambitious  he hoped theyd keep him in the game keep him conscious   he set them beside the bed on the wood floor

                                    pulled up stakes

he took apart the pillows he leaned against the wall

    no headboard for him

theyd been possible dealkillers when meeting new women

                                                              boldly telling them rightupfront

My experience with headboards they make an ungodly noise slapping against the wall when Im making love  could have said sex which would have been more accurate but  was a callingcard enticement  wonderment  of sorts

the pillows arranged for sleep he pulled his sweatshirt up over his head

                                                                           it caught

on the pen he kept with the clipboard

hed tucked over top his ear

    thats why he was able to write

                                        . . . thas all callin it a night

sheesh  what an asshole

2141,  Sunday,  13  4. 25

1057,  Monday,  14  4. 25