Over all the furnishings the dust holds sway,
The Venetian mirrors have shed their charm;
There lingers still, like old Parmese perfume,
The bitter sweetness of a long-known sachet.
And never more across the silence flow
Piano tunes in a rhythmic lullaby;
Mozart and Mendelssohn, wed in sweet harmony,
Are but heard in dreams in sleepy evening’s glow.
But the poet, wandering in gross ennui,
Opening windows to the night’s clear force,
Alone, fists clenched, and with the wildest glance
Suddenly imagines, haunted by remorse,
A solemn great ball, evolved from fantasy,
Where he thought he saw his dead parents dance.
Can you tell me how it feels to say goodbye?
Would you help me if I tried to conquer time?
Is there something that can take me to your side?
Mick: Your name came up in connection with the story that Maureen was working on.
Josef: Well, was her body found in La Brea Tar Pits?
Josef: That was the only person I killed this week.
Mick: Josef, this is serious.
Josef: No, this is stupid. Yes, Maureen called me, and I’ll tell you what I told her. Look, I’m on the board of dozens of charities. I can’t keep track. My PR man sets it all up. I had no idea this charity was bogus until she told me.
Mick: Okay, we’ll talk to your PR man.
Josef: Remember the tar pits?