tossed pillows on the floor

inside was where the imaginary summer wind blew
in December when it was cold and snowed outside
and the town folk stranded by the wind-whipped sea
settled down with me to take a sip of avant-garde tea.
no one understood the price we'd have to pay
each distance could have been very great or too far
and in the end i refused to commit myself.
i pulled another great book from the factory shelf
to read about a relentless game of quid pro quo:
i was determined to come out ahead.
i tried to get some recent work done,
willing to toil until the rise of another stainless steel sun
but it was dark and all the poets were still asleep;
a number of painters had a supply of drawings
which enabled some of them to eat a meal.
i slid into my car and got behind the wheel.
there would be bouts of drinking and suicides
and i covered my entire face with ragtime,
adjusted the radio, and pulled the top down
to the nape of my neck to hide my frown.
i found a studio assistant in a guest cottage
and she agreed to bring me back down to earth.
she used a black satin sofa and a cafe chair
while i tossed pillows on the floor seemingly without a care.