THE UPPER ROOM
At my entertaining entrance - all the things to
be made sure of for certain - they do go on.
The parties of endless people and their
effusive old songs, the sour smell of an
old dog's breath. Someone playing Mama
Cass on an old thirty-three and a third - some
rotating black disk of trouble wailing away -
and God I can hardly listen. Both sense and
sensibility, in its Jamesian way, all gone.
The threadbare attic waits for a dance.
At my entertaining entrance - all the things to
be made sure of for certain - they do go on.
The parties of endless people and their
effusive old songs, the sour smell of an
old dog's breath. Someone playing Mama
Cass on an old thirty-three and a third - some
rotating black disk of trouble wailing away -
and God I can hardly listen. Both sense and
sensibility, in its Jamesian way, all gone.
The threadbare attic waits for a dance.
No comments:
Post a Comment