Sailing—
and
sailing, and
sailing—until sunk
somewhere out there,
halfway among—awful rat-
racers
and dash-it-all
nighthawks
drunk at the diner—and halfway
between slightly
asleep and
awake
at the counter; that's where
he caught
his first
red weather tiger—
whom, rather
than holler when clutched,
roared—or at least
seemed
to roar
absolutely—one single bold
red word,
which leapt forth confoundingly
in a foreign tongue
from his
dumb mouth—Sayonara!
Sayonara. A farewell
maybe—to clinging;
halfway between,
but definitely
neither,
a good
goodbye—nor
a decent—
see you later.
