More Fun . . .

See Dick. See Dick

spot Jane. See Jane run. Run, Jane—

too late. “I know, years!” “ . . . and Baby Sally?

. . . and Spot! Oh, Spot.”

“Grown-up . . . gone . . . with Father

and Mother . . . ”

“Imagine . . . like yesterday” (Jane was a mother

herself now, of course, and Dick—Dick!—

a father).

“Anyway, care to join

me? Not to put you on the spot . . . ”

“Oh, of course not, don’t be silly.

It’s just, I’m running so la—”

“Of course. Some other

time.” “Of course.” A respite,

Dick

sees Jane

think. And if it went no further

(farther?), if they were seeing each other for the

last time . . . un déjeuner de soleil,

thinks Dick. Then, c’est jejune.

She would be a grandmother,

soon enough: metal hip, medic-

alert bracelet, cats—Puff! His pet

names for her, their old, hip little spot

on the corner . . . poof. A little farther

(further?) ahead in their episodic,

long-running rehearsal lay

(lie?) what (and what did it matter?),

Morphine with Dick and Jane?

Imagine . . .

See Dick. See Dick pat his pot

belly, mutter,

inaudibly, to himself “Ah, there

there.” It’s only an unusually

ludic

(lucid?) dream, thinks Dick. Their seemingly endless potentials met here,

see, and then . . . poof, at her first word. Of course. C’est la

vie. “See you, Jane.” “Good to see you, Dick.”