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  • If I had one more hour to give you,

    I would give it to you, and say: Call me,

    I would say, Maybe it didn't have to be that way, the way it ended.

    Maybe if we had had just one more hour together,

    If the plane had been late, or cancelled, or----

    You had been un----what would I call it?----I was your girl, but she was your girl, too.

    But I was there, and she was not there, and we two were in war, and----

    There is nothing like war to bring you together, when the hours are short, and the begging prayer of Just One More Hour With You, is every day.

    If I had had just one more hour with you,

    It could have been the clincher,

    But you went back to her,

    And then I was truly single, but you kept calling me.

    We wrote though she was the one, you said, you said, I don't know what happened.

    And now we have another Daylight Savings, and it is peace or at least American Elections and I wonder, being as you are a Manhattan boy now, how you fared during the hurricane days, but come this night, we will have one hour more, and I say to my husband D at dinner (and you did meet D and you two did like each other but never mind that), I said to D, I said to him-----

    "If you had one more hour, what would you do, honey?"

    And he said: "I would give it to you."

    And then I said, "If all of Canada and the United States of America, if each of us, tonight had one more hour, then we would have about 400,000 more hours to spend. And maybe we would go back in time, before we ever existed. What would we do with 16 thousand years, together?"

    And he gave me that look.

    It was a look that something to do with physics I think. Physics and eyebrows and luck and falling. Skin and love.

    He said, "You were born inside the extra tank of my heart."

    I said, "I would take that one hour and I would give it back to you."

    Then we did a nice soft jive to, "Someday Baby," from Modern Times, by Bob Dylan.

    Hey, I learned to jive with a doorknob.

    In time, I could flip my hair with a real live boy.

    I learned all my jive steps with a set of serial good-for-nothing door jams.

    Then I graduated to the real smooth boys. They had that offbeat syncopation I did not know I dearly loved, but apparently did. That hit it on the off-note rhythm.

    We swung and twirled and just went easy. Hey, we had a live wet basement drying one floor below.

    But here came the fish up the stairs, here came the old lobster tails, here came those low flying trout, those slippery cats, those bass notes.

    We just did that half-time jive, with one hour extra, that little clock lagniappe, and Bob Dylan like some old-time voice auctioneer of gauze truths.

    Someday baby.

    (Digital paintings by Susan)
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