print previewback DANIEL GROVES
More Fun . . .
See Dick. See Dick
spot Jane. See Jane run. Run, Jane—
too late. “I know, years!” “ . . . and Baby Sally?
. . . and Spot! Oh, Spot.”
“Grown-up . . . gone . . . with Father
and Mother . . . ”
“Imagine . . . like yesterday” (Jane was a mother
herself now, of course, and Dick—Dick!—
a father).
“Anyway, care to join
me? Not to put you on the spot . . . ”
“Oh, of course not, don’t be silly.
It’s just, I’m running so la—”
“Of course. Some other
time.” “Of course.” A respite,
Dick
sees Jane
think. And if it went no further
(farther?), if they were seeing each other for the
last time . . . un déjeuner de soleil,
thinks Dick. Then, c’est jejune.
She would be a grandmother,
soon enough: metal hip, medic-
alert bracelet, cats—Puff! His pet
names for her, their old, hip little spot
on the corner . . . poof. A little farther
(further?) ahead in their episodic,
long-running rehearsal lay
(lie?) what (and what did it matter?),
Morphine with Dick and Jane?
Imagine . . .
See Dick. See Dick pat his pot
belly, mutter,
inaudibly, to himself “Ah, there
there.” It’s only an unusually
ludic
(lucid?) dream, thinks Dick. Their seemingly endless potentials met here,
see, and then . . . poof, at her first word. Of course. C’est la
vie. “See you, Jane.” “Good to see you, Dick.” 
More Fun . . .
Villanelle (avec Evel Knievel)