Ron and I are in a plane. An old one. A bomber, and we’ve got a bomb in back, and we’re headed for Japan I guess.
“Ron,” I say. “Shouldn’t we talk about this?”
“Listen, you prick,” he says. “This isn’t a little Haiku joke or sitting down to blog.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean,” I reply. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
But Ron’s shaking his head like a frustrated ape.
“You don’t understand a thing, do you,” he spurts out, and he’s all red and purple and he’s practically foaming.
“These people don’t even write poetry any more,” he fumes. “All they do’s sit around and watch Robert Hass movies.”
“You know,” he continues, choking up, “they don’t even know who I am. A recent poll showed that only 4 people in the whole of Japan know who I am and in the fullness of time you know that’s only going to get worse. Much worse.”
“In 30 years what is my legacy going to look like?” he continues, whining. “O, Bob Hass. Bob Hass. Bob Hass”
But then, suddenly, he snaps out of his funk violently.
“These bastards need to die,” he screams. That’s all the fire he’s got though——and all he manages, now, between fits of sobbing, is “need to die, need to die” in a very low, eerie murmur.
I roll down the window, and float out.
I’m coming in towards my house and I’m wondering if my Love Birds’ eggs have hatched yet. I’m suddenly really worried about them.
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