Rhythm Never Dies

I was at home on the toilet when the news came under the door. It mixed itself with other things before it finally got to me. It was hard to bear, but I had to. An automobile came to get us, with four new tires, a rusted gray body with one black door. After the funeral, I did not speak about it, I cried just a little, rubbed my eyes enough to be noticed, got back into the car with that one black door. It took Route 64 heading for a glass of Elijah Craig. I should've married that woman before she left for the high-rise. She's way above us now, but there's something left of her. Had someone else found it where it was hidden in the movement of her hips, in the rhythm of her waist; roll after roll? I hate the sadness but enjoy the luxury of feeling again.