109) Recluse

He isn't lonely. Each part of him stays up late, playing bridge,
eating pretzels. Toes do cigarette tricks, the tongue recites
Dickinson. Fingers thread a faded print of Grand Hotel through
the rickety projector, dim the lights, and the eyes watch Garbo
flicker like a moth in a jar. When everything else has drifted
to sleep, the recluse and his penis sip brandy and reminisce.
Ah, Elba, sighs the penis. Night gathers on the porch with
microphones and camera. The recluse turns the lock, tugs
absently at his bandages. Yes, it seems like yesterday. But even today
seems like yesterday.

---Joel Brouwer