BOLTHOLD'S BOOK.

[dadio]

Bolthold sipped his coffee. He smelt
The caffeine, steam touched his nose.
His book was supposed to be completed,
The editor bums had him on the run,
Wanting this changed and that, this
Taken out, this put in. The cafe was busy.
He wanted a cigarette, but no smoking
Permitted, no doing this, no doing that,
Do this, do that. He sensed the coffee on
His tongue, the taste, the sweet bitterness.
He looked around, noted the young girls,
The old women, the men, the waiters.
The book kept him awake at night; rewrites
Fucked him up. No inspiration, no fresh feel.
We have to make it a best seller, the editor
Creep said, make profit, and make you rich,
He added, giving Bolthold the sickly smile.
Where's the fucking art in that? Bolthold asked.
Where’s the art in the market call? The girl
Across from his table scratched a thigh, talked
To some guy, laughed in a sexy way. Bolthold
Took note, studied the form, the way she sat,
Her skirt up to her ass, her top, the way the full
Breasts filled it out. He sipped more coffee,
Held his cup in both hands, spied over the cup’s
Rim, took in the girl face, the eyes, the hands
Holding the cup, the rings, the nails painted red.
The book stank of editor’s drool, editor’s fingers,
Pen, maybe sperm. Bolthold would complete the
Book, send it off, wait and see. The girl laughed
And put a hand over her mouth; a finger was
Missing from the hand, the tiny finger, not there,
Space where it ought to have been and then she
Laughed again. There was pitter-patter on the cafe
Windows, skies darkened, down came the hard rain.