Natalie spends the night
Walking country roads, taking pictures
Of UFOs and SUVs
But the secret is
Though the flash goes off
There's no film inside
No, she can't explain it
Michael's hotel bed
Seems sandy tonight
Like he went to the beach
And laid on the bed without showering
But that's not the case
It's just sandy
No, he can't explain it
Natalie asks her husband
Why she always looks better
In black-and-white photos
Why she looks like a spinster in color
But her husband's asleep
Dreaming of coffee and tomorrow's to-do list
So Natalie spits in his hair
Michael calls the front desk
"Can you send up new sheets?
I'll put them on myself"
The night-desk man, suspicious of requests for new linens
But obsequious to people like Mike
Sends up a fitted
And an unfitted
The next morning, at the stained glass shop in town
Natalie orders a new window
For the baby's room, "something with swans and hummingbirds"
The artisan nods and says what he always says
"How many hummingbirds? What color swans?"
"Seven and black"
Then she ventures to the pub for a hearty ale
And writes a song about a wedding veil
Michael stays on his new smooth sheet
And writes a song about the
For Natalie, for when she deigns to sing again
Back home, Natalie retires
To her Great Room
With her opium and apple brandy
She dims the light 'til there's one candle left
She grabs her notebook (college-ruled)
Tears off the page with the wedding veil song
Burns the song into a dot
Finds a fresh sheet
And, with her quill pen, writes the words....
“I see a white light
It looks like a circus
But it’s not a circus
It’s only a light”
The next morning Natalie calls Michael
To wish him a happy birthday, a day early
Michael says thank you, acts distracted
And hangs up without saying goodbye
These conversations with Natalie have been going nowhere for years
He retreats to the hotel café to meet an old college friend, a fire eater
The friend says “Mike, we need to talk”
So Mike and the fire eater take a walk around the city
Past the stump houses and the peeling, sweating mansions
Past the girls on bicycles
And the boys on bicycles
Past Old Joe the Jazz Hippie
Past the garage where they worked on Mike’s Volvo
Back when he could still drive
The fire eater, a bowlegged woman with tattoos of volcanoes
Tells Mike to rest until he could sleep again
To stay quiet until he could sing
To travel the world and not trust
“People who look in yer eye when they speak”
Mike heeds her advice
But Natalie he can’t shake
When she calls back and says
“Must have lost reception”
He hangs up again, unplugs the hotel phone
Spills into the Pacific night, walking the low streets
With his Kangol on but no sunglasses
Nodding at those who recognize him
And cursing those who don't
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