Dana lies on the leather sofa.
Louis sits on the woollen rug.
In their mahogany frames his painted birds
twitter above the aquarium.
In its black metal border her Rothko print
broods beside the airconditioner.
They flick on the television and watch
a movie about Jim Morrison.
Louis’s eyes drift shut. Jim, played
by an actor, trance-dances. Dana looks
at Louis: tonsure, stubble,
frown-lines. Jim Morrison in his leather pants
shatters some American night with his trail of words.
Louis wakes up, sleeps, wakes up, sleeps,
wakes up. The credits roll in a Ray Manzarek
John Densmore haze. Louis and Dana sit
for a moment. She’s
in a moody Jim Morrison silence.
I’m gonna leave you.
I could say it now.
It would be so easy.
But it’s not a good time
to rearrange the furniture.
They go to bed, she careful not to touch
because she doesn’t want to fuck. She says
— So you’re coming to my show.
— What would you like me to sing?
— I dunno.
— Which of my songs do you like?
— Uh … the ones
about Paris … they’re very
— I need to sleep now.
— What’s your favourite band?
— I dunno.
— What’s your favourite food?
— Yoghurt. That mango one.
— That’s too sweet for me now. Funny how your tastes change