676. THE HORN AT THE HOUSE

THE HORN AT THE HOUSE
('a broken English')
We wheedled a large dishevelled mess
out of the garage store nursemaid as she
was standing by eating candy corn beneath
the eaves. It was all too weird, how the half-light
refracted in spite of itself into a rainbow'd distraction.
No dilemma, there. She turned about, and said:
'From Istanbul I told you this was coming. You tried
to ignore my plight, but I wouldn't let you off. Remember?'
I certainly did, and let her know. She was the little sister
of Orhan Pamuk, and I'd known her before I knew him,
yet I'm older than both. 'Go to figure at that out' - as they
would say in their stupid broken-English. Before Istanbul,
it had been Bombay, and before that, Beirut. Funny too,
how now they're all places which no longer exist by those
names or have been splintered to smithereens in some form
of modern, political death. Not to matter. Eagles still soar.
Politicians still puke, and even the lowly guys and girls from
the United Nations, in their lovely blue jumpsuits, can live
and laugh and love and die just like any of all the rest.