Three Days of the Condor
The condor’s collar is up.
Cold war winds sweep the city streets.
Christmas is here and all America
wants under the tree is cheap crude
oil. Barrels instead of stockings.
Rest ye merry gentleman, God.
Where’s Faye Dunaway with my pastrami sandwich?
Where’s my moped? My Harris Tweed sport coat?
Redford was handsome. To have that head of hair,
those glasses, in 1970s New York. Oh tidings of
something, maybe comfort, less likely, joy.
Red Desert
Creepily smelling Monica Vitti’s hair across sixty years:
strawberries macerated in Aperol, a tart green apple
lost in a field of lush red wheat.
Industrial structures. Rust. Wind.
Hopscotch
Matthau’s glorious tufts of ear hair will cheer up my girlfriend.
Old Walter’s easy, jowly charisma is bound to please.
She’s moping on the couch, half-watching Hopscotch,
half listening to prog rock, remembering her father, recently deceased.
I’m patient. Supportive. To a point.
But I didn’t sign up to date a depressive.
I date to get away from the ongoing relationship with the depressive that is me
I laugh extra heartily to cheer her up. To cheer her on, chastise her.
The film is a comedy but this isn’t the movies.
I don’t know what this is.