-from the dark-side of the planet /  dancing with Loretta-

Harold's alone, slow-dancing across the carpet

and nobody’s there to put a stop to it

and to make matters worse the radio's tuned-in

to the harpsichord of the wrong Bach.

one slipper's heel is torn like a slit throat,—

bathrobe’s opened to twilight, while a Camel

burns-out in the ashtray, its clinging

hornworm of ash leaving in its wake the wet,

yellow stain of an old duck's-ass, and the night is young.

Harold's got five and a half hours to go.

maybe he'll talk to Loretta again in the morning.

he knows what he looked like

the last time they played their parts in this awkward
on-line romance and it wasn't pretty.

Loretta seemed to be longing

for someone unconnected to the acid-throwers of her life.

Harold's slow-dancing across the carpet

and nobody’s there to put a stop to it.

Loretta's waiting at the desktop on the far-side of town

for someone to play a different kind of tune.