A microscopic riot in the rug—
as creatures so hideous they remind us
of dinosaurs beneath the twisted fabric
battle the battle of their lives.
There is intense silence.
Charles Garçon waits on the floor, alone.
Pretend to be nothing, he thinks, not even a song.
Yet the notes he makes are meant to be sung.
And so he sings, cannot help but sing.
He has no voice—no vice, I mean—
but no one cares. He is not good nor well.
But when he sings, his rug becomes a grave.
The monsters all float away.
It seems no one cares, or cares to stay.
The tiny dinosaurs are dead.
It is as if a meteor has hit the earth—again.
A yellow cloud springs from the Yucatan—again.
The earth grows cold—again.
Goodbye Garçon, goodbye.
You were once the apple of my eye.
Charley, I have no more to say to you.
Perhaps I was never sorry.
Perhaps I was never blue.