A MAN DIED IN HARLEM
I thought I knew it all. Knew nothing, all of
nothing. My Matterhorn was a broken shoulder
and a hen-pot to boot; soup like rancid eels stewing
on a ghetto stove. The five Puerto Rican guys had
been fishing in the Hudson; brought back slime
and rope and a gun. Not much more for a day's
worth of local fishing; feet up on a flattened pier,
a concrete abutment spitting rust. Men get happy
like that, seldom - unless it's lust. These guys
couldn't have cared for anything. Drunk to their
skivvies, they whistled like whores and threw down
their tackle and laughed. I was weeding the doctor's
garden by then - sixteen fifty a day, for nothing;
grass grows like shit in a dog's ear. I thought I
knew it all. Knew nothing; all of nothing.
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