I can see it. Tomorrow morning. Up with the sun, stretch, wash face. Put on clothes that have already been laid out, grab bass and bags that were packed last nite. Open door, scan empty room one last time. Got everything!
Boogie down the hall, push elevator button and wait. Take out iPod, scroll thru photos of Francesca. Ding! Ride elevator to the ground floor. Bolt thru through the casino, dragging suitcase and dodging cigarette smoke, oxygen tanks, and button-down short-sleeved shirts with drawings of flames on them, until reaching the gigantic double glass doors.
Get to front desk. ”Checking out of room #@% please.” I didn’t eat one morsel of food in this establishment, and the bottle of water in my hand came from backstage last nite, so there are NO INCIDENTAL CHARGES and I am free to go without signing anything or spending any dollars.
Drop off suitcase and bass with bell desk. Push gigantic double glass doors open, step outside and savor the hush of no casino noise. A few strides to the corner, run across dangerously wide 4-lane street to Starbucks. Use remainder of yesterday’s per diem to purchase latte and muffin. (Breakfast buffet? I don’t think so.) Stand in the ‘bucks for an extra second and imagine that it’s the one on the corner of Court Street and Wyckoff Street in Brooklyn.
Bust out of the ‘bucks, back across dangerously wide 4-lane street back to casinohotel. Get suitcase and bass from bell desk, slip bellman a few dollars, and park my carcass on a bench outside with my Starbucks until airport courtesy van arrives. When up he rolls, load bags and bass into the trunk, and settle into the bench seat with ELO on the iPod asking the sweet talking woman to slow down. I’m closer to home already.
Maneuver through airport situation smoothly, make it to the gate with minimum hassle, and board the aircraft. Reach cruising altitude, put iPod back on and Freddie asks me to find him somebody to love. Land at LAX, change planes. Board second aircraft, and John tells me that he wants Yoko so bad it’s driving him mad. That’s when I drift off to sleep, only waking up as we begin our descent into New York’s John F. Kennedy airport.
De-plane, get my bags off the carousel, hop in the taxi and jam thru the nite down the Belt Parkway, roll up to the pad. Up the elevator, tiptoe thru the door, leave bass and bags to be unpacked in the morning. Slide into bedroom, squeeze into bed next to both of my babies. Home.
I can see it. 
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