For Pamela Courson Morrison 1946-1974

 

You went the same as Jim

only two years later

on a living room sofa.

 

Let’s pretend you didn’t reverse Sid and Nancy

and that you lived long enough to get that reference.

Let’s say you grew to love Santa Monica and remarried

and lets say his name was Barry

and lets say he started the first tanning bed salon in North America.

 

No, fuck that.

Let’s say you went back to Paris.

You chain-smoked until your lungs bled

and barked Rimbaud at anyone who judged you.

Let’s say you mastered the french pout

and made the most sought after crepes in Monmartre.

Your secret ingredient was nutmeg,

and you sold them to tourists on Saturday afternoons.

 

Let’s pretend

you lived long enough

to stroll past the news stand on Rue Label

and see the Rolling Stone cover

on the tenth anniversary of his death.

Over his photo, large print.

Jim Morrison:

He’s hot,

he’s sexy,

and he’s dead.

 

If there was an airplane flying over

at that moment,

you didn’t hear it.

You stumbled over to a park bench

and fought to breathe.

You spent the rest of the afternoon

watching the fountain ducks.

Fountain ducks are just pigeons,

but you called them that

because he called them fountain ducks.

And it was the last thing he said

that made you laugh.