Cold sweat, palpitations, blurred vision.
She, under attack, knows the drill.
Needs. To run. To the airport. Asap.
Get the hell out of this mess.
Takes a cab, ducks and covers.
Waits, waits, wait, what was that?
Deep breaths on red lights,
breathe out on greens.
Go, stop, go, full stop.
Pays, gets off, forgets bag,
cabby calls her back, grabs it, runs.
Straight to the closest toilet, or elevator
to business lounge. Opens door,
Hurts thumb. Thump, thump, thump,
Squats with head between knees
to better absorb medicine. Eyes shut.
Enters museum of happy memories with soundtrack
music by the live orchestra of Paul Mauriat.
That much recalled feeling of 'everything
hunky dory' that transforms the real gory
into imaginary crap.
The "lying covered in Coppertone at the beach" sensation,
the "gee your hair smells terrific" and "L' air du temps"
happy pastel stupid embrace. The scent of new Barbie hair,
the bubblegum tasting lip gloss, the house with the glass doors,
her grandmother's hug, a first kiss by the boy next door under the stairs,
her best friend in the pink cashmere sweater going through the pages of "Seventeen".
She can jump from the window and be sure she will land
on all these stuffed with cotton candy memories.
Shrapnel and zombies and can go fuck themselves for the moment.
She is safely in her past, now.