The street spit in my face.
I can't wipe it off. I can't wipe it off
I tried to hire others to take a towel and scrub it off.
They ran away, ran to a shopping center, 
Bought a ticket to a movie about someone called Evita.
I've offered all my possessions
If anyone could remove the spit.
When they saw what I owned, they laughed.
I offered my friendship,
But the offer brought even louder laughter.
I offered my love,
Heard the loudest laughter I've ever heard in my whole life.
I was desperate.  The spit was sticky, even caused pain.
I went to an old Gypsy.  She shuffled her Tarot cards.
After taking my money, she said,
"There is only one way to get the spit off your face.
A dark haired woman with auburn tints in her hair
Must take off her dress, and with the dress 
Wipe the spit off your face."
I knew this woman. We had lunch together yesterday.
I became resigned that the spit would stay on my face forever.



(C) Copyright November, 1999
Duane Locke
All Rights Reserved