If I Could Write a Book
Sally lit another Marlboro
stared at her Smith-Corona
drank sweet Passover wine
broke her writer’s fast on Kingsbridge Road
Her Elijah never came
dumped her for a Scarsdale beauty
with youth & class
Alone at the age of thirty-five
her brain cells & sexuality craved attention
The RCA turntable in motion—
fingers pounded to the beat & heat
of Miles Davis & his quintet
Like the song
if she could write a book she would
Keys couldn’t keep up with Miles & his band—
her past & present didn’t make sense
nouns argued with pronouns
verbs cried for help
& adverbs were nowhere to be found
Ideas gone askew
paperback nonsense
scattered by her feet
She finished her wine
put out her last cigarette
said good night to Miles & his quintet
ripped her unfinished page
from the Smith-Corona
before turning off the light