On rhythm . . .
Beat the rhythm; find a chord, a sticky end. Bend with the sticky end, a sticky bend, the end.
“Jo was a friend I knew in the hospital, only for a few hours. Jo was assiduous in pursuit of eye contact but no sooner had she caught a man’s eye than her memory unglued and random names spewed. Often bolt upright, she squeaked on damp PVC, her legs wantonly apart in her flimsy hospital gown. She smiled at me hoping for a last grasping friendship or perhaps she knew my weakness. All too soon for her geriatric appetite, her life peeled away and crisp nurses kicked orange swabs around the floor. She croaked for her purse. No bills, just paying a final farewell to the crumpled image of another man long gone”.