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He suddenly cried
but these were not just any tears.
These were tears
that had been in waiting
for many years.
"Tears delayed for years,"
a poet might say.
He hadn't held a woman
in his arms for five years
and he felt more alienated
than an attic.
If loneliness had been a crime,
he would have been a felon.
No dollar in the history of money
had ever experienced
more than two hours
more than two hours
in his pocket.
Given the snowballing effect
of poverty, loneliness and alienation,
an avalanche of tears
cascaded from his face,
saturated his clothes,
and filled the furnished little room
that in his better moments,
he called "home."
He escaped the deluge
through a broken window
in the bathroom.
A neighborhood woman
whom he had long lusted after
but had never spoken with
(except through his mind's eye)
found a dripping wet heap
just outside her door.
Her name was
Good Sara Maritan.
She helped him dry out
and fed him.
The more food she fed him,
the more sympathy
poured from her heart.
A more central part of her anatomy
befriended him
and they became lovers.
Three days later,
he returned home
and found a few tears
on the sofa
which had yet to dry.
They made him laugh
and he never cried again.
***
(1981)
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Footnotes
THE WET LOOK
is the copyrighted property
of LCSoL
The original text travelled from
Hollywood to Virginia
and then to Long Beach.
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