1119. CARETAKER

CARETAKER
(outside of a place called Olive's)

'Good morning, my sugar' I heard the
man say. He leaned forward, as if to leer.
'Not a hat, too harsh, too wedge-like, rather
a shawl or a kerchief perhaps, wrapped
around the head from the neck up; always
a nice look.' I'd long ago had it with people
like that : checklists and booteries, sorting
things by size and shape, order and discipline,
all that crap, the stuff that makes people
dead long before their time.
-
'Go drop dead yourself' is something like
what I'd wished to say to him. Metrical
meter, rhythmical lying bastard, I could tell
it all - slavemaster, prisonkeeper, poisoner
of young girls' minds. If he'd ever really
had any kids of his own, they'd have run
away a long time ago. The guy, as I watched,
drowned his coffee in sugar two inches deep.
-
Outside, what I thought was an elf turned out,
instead, to be some Mexican kitchen worker
sulking to work - long to labor and late to stay,
I wanted to shake his hand. But, no takers.
He was gone in an instant. Down the
underground stand at a place
called Olive's.