Last Call
Overheard during Dour Hour down at Pandora’s Tavern, a guy whispering into his phone: “Where I’m calling from is not far from here.” It brought back the memory of a fellow I once spotted sitting on a discarded tombstone at the far western end of San Francisco. He had the phone to his ear, but all the long while I was watching he never moved his lips, never spoke a word. It was as if no one was on the other end of the call, no one was listening. He was an artist after my own heart.
