What happens to the day? Not long ago it was morning
and I was struggling valiantly to read Norman Mailer’s
“Harlot’s Ghost,” 1380 pages, didn’t he know when to stop?
That is why I like Hemingway, he was so mercifully short.
I was thinking of this when sitting in the local bar nursing
a whisky with ice water, but then all the farmhands came
they were noisy, played cards…so I gulped down my drink
and left. At home I put Norman back on the book shelf,
decided to leave him for a long winter evening; and since
it doesn’t get dark till nine, I drove towards the sunset and
wrote a true ghost story about a sunray that danced at
midnight and picked flowers for his beloved, a moonbeam.
Alas, at nights, blossoms are grey or colorless, she refused his
offer, his ardour too hot for her….she flew back to her moon.
