Tzeltal

At George’s 50th birthday party bash the yellow rum cake was fussed over
until it was all gone, as luck would have it, there were still a few
crumbs left scattered on the porcelain plate, like a couple of lonely
people up at 3:00 am. in a deserted Italian plaza, watching the beggars
fish the day’s coins from the fountain.

“Canada’s Prime minister is gay?” “No, the plot was all wrong, she
should have found the missing manuscript, not him.” “They have been
having problems ever since he got back from Tzeltal.” “Who ever said
love cures all, never knew my partner’s ex girlfriend.” “Organic lemons
at $1.59 each? No thank you, I’ll stick with GMO any time.” “That’s like
saying Ozzie and Harriet led the Manson Family.” “I am not kidding,
Illinois State Prison graduated 20 of them last year.” “I know, Y Tu
Mama Tambien, came but I have not yet had the time to watch it.” “No
more Dewer’s? Canadian Club with a splash then.” “Like some god damn
Egyptian god on his god damn barge.” “Try after five, that’s when he
always comes up for air.” “Sure they are implants.”

After a deserted glass of white wine was knocked off the railing and
fell to the bricks below, it was decided just to leave all the pieces
down there because they were far too small to see at that late hour and
besides, the mist off the lake was starting to pour in, bringing a
slight chill.

Then the full harvest moon rose up silently in the East, like a lover
lifting her pale head from a pillow, telling everyone it was time to
retreat and get some rest,
because there probably would be a dream waiting in the night to be had,
only to be completely forgotten in the morning,
except by a lucky few, yet to be determined.


© Curtis Gould