UPSTATE
I was upstate at the water factory, I was upstate
at the cider mill, and the gunnery and the yacht
club too. I met the lass with silver eyes parading
naked before Count Ives, the man whom they call
Mr. Upstate. He sat on a regal throne made of
antique barrels that once housed rum. Pirate's
booty, yo-ho-ho, and all that. Now the same
place is a private cafe for gents with money.
I wasn't alone for long - mind you, not that
I wished to be. They send along anything
you could want : marvelous slab steaks the
size of a house, watermelons quartered and
dusted with a powdered glaze that frosts
the sweetness. All these things that
upstate money brings. Everyone
living in enormous, ramshackle
houses facing a hill
or a mountain.
Where, just
over there,
the river
runs.
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