For Pamela Courson Morrison 1946-1974
You went the same as Jim
only two years later
on a living room sofa.
Let’s pretend you didn’t reverse Sid and Nancy
and that you lived long enough to get that reference.
Let’s say you grew to love Santa Monica and remarried
and lets say his name was Barry
and lets say he started the first tanning bed salon in North America.
No, fuck that.
Let’s say you went back to Paris.
You chain-smoked until your lungs bled
and barked Rimbaud at anyone who judged you.
Let’s say you mastered the french pout
and made the most sought after crepes in Monmartre.
Your secret ingredient was nutmeg,
and you sold them to tourists on Saturday afternoons.
you lived long enough
to stroll past the news stand on Rue Label
and see the Rolling Stone cover
on the tenth anniversary of his death.
Over his photo, large print.
and he’s dead.
If there was an airplane flying over
at that moment,
you didn’t hear it.
You stumbled over to a park bench
and fought to breathe.
You spent the rest of the afternoon
watching the fountain ducks.
Fountain ducks are just pigeons,
but you called them that
because he called them fountain ducks.
And it was the last thing he said
that made you laugh.