She brogues, “Why are you angry with me?”
Her Baaston accent welshin’ dispiritedly
Conspiratorially, I say, “Play along with my delusions,
You’re not dyin’, you’re not dyin’ Susan,”
The Irish whiskey draws my anguish.
As the Victrola plays, “Shuffle off to Buffalo.”
I hum along after a few bars.
“Marvelous, marvelous,” she sings,
As she starts to plays along.
I was as free as a bluebird.
The fragments of anguish left me,
But went to her.
I catch her by her arm,
But her arm doesn’t move.
She was kind of downhearted at the end, I guess.
She was dyin’.
“You’re dyin’, Susan.”