938. COMING UP FOR AIR

COMING UP FOR AIR
(Segal's)
It's not. Hardly. There's nothing there.
The old storefront in Easton, now long
gone. Some merchant name like a million
others - wedding clothes and balloons,
sunglasses and shoes, dress pants, beachware
and more. As the name is gone I can't remember
it. The building too is gone - and all I've got
is the photograph with the very stylized lettering.
A sign, signifying something. Myles, or Tep's,
or Siegal's. Yes, yes, oh that was it. How many
things just like that live on in the infamy of an
idle mind? Active? Encountered? Engaged?
Aye, there's the pun. I rub it in.
-
My only daughter, she's turned out to be
a mobster's wife, and what can I do?
Get killed because of what she's become?
I'll pass on that. She's snorting cocaine
in her living room right now, probably
lounging back in her panties and shirt -
his shirt - open down the front, unbuttoned
with nothing underneath. And the TV on,
loudly too. A mobster's wife, and
what can I do?
-
Trying to find a conference call :
fifteen popes talking to ten presidents,
dollars to donuts about nothing at all.
I can't speak the language, can't read
the tongue. I'm tying to find that
conference call.
-
Walt, pepper, grapefruit, onions and kale.
Men of so many other names - the girl
with the drum majorette, the ballerina costume
worn by the midget, she, the one on the
balustrade, she, the one of the pirouettes.
The old, old doctor with the black leather
bag. He walks in backward, and
leaves so sad.