648. THE MINDLESS CHARGE OF A DIATRIBE

THE MINDLESS CHARGE
OF A DIATRIBE
I never faltered at the first step of the
landing; it was the end that always got me -
where the little stairs went sideways and ended,
curling about and stopping, around the bend:
There! that twisted second floor hallway.
Always something mysterious, I guess, about
a 200-year old house. The old guy who lived there,
solitary but quite happy, said he was closing it up
soon and moving to Emmanuel - a rest-home
for elders about 3 miles away. The house was
a rickety beauty, and I hated to see it - like him - go.
-
Forty years later, son-of-a-gun, it's still there.
He's gone and dead long ago - just another
sturdy old black man in the annals of ancient
history. The house is yellow now - they turned it
into some professional space years back - real-estate,
law office, all that infernal crap. The yard was
paved for parking, with but a tiny patch of
grass left - no vista, nothing to see. A real
mess that works for those who mess.
(I guess).