I listen to Barney Kessel
and smoke smoke smoke and drink tea
and try to make myself some toast
with butter and jam
but discover I have no bread and
it's already twelve thirty at night
and the only thing there is to eat
is a bottle half full
with chicken stock bought this
morning and five eggs and a
little muscatel and Barney Kessel plays
guitar stuck between a rock
and an open socket
I think I'll make consomme'
and then get into bed
to re-read The Invention  of Morel
and think about a blond girl
until I fall asleep
and start dreaming.