3043. THE FIVE DOYLES OF CRENSHAW

THE FIVE DOYLES OF CRENSHAW

(my abstract loom)
The paint was sequestered where the pail
was held. Five story buildings, painted a
midwestern green, showed only numbers
and glass. Traffic ran by like a nozzle-nosed
faucet with a running stream. Those eating
cakes ate their cakes. Fighter-planes screamed.
-
Battleship gray and tarnished with walloping
steel, a pale midshipman - I was watching - held
his ears while his heart plugged away. Two
banjo guys played something on the fo'castle.
-
I was quizzical. It meant nothing. Across the
portal, the sandcastle held the roadway's daunting
edge in check, and someone had (already)
put up some new monument to the dead, or
those who had died at that scene, or someone
alone at that particular intersection. Sheila
or Krysta, like, on the ground. Bunnies and
bears, and some crude hand-written sign.
-
No one knew from nothing, whatever had
really gone on. The sweet-faced cop garbled
his talk with a lemonade ice. Just near the
bicycle store, where two girls stood giggling,
two boys were stood up. Springtime turning
their minds to fancy and their fancies to love,
both their lush purple pants bulged.
-
I meandered the creek at the bottom.
In this rural land, the cities loomed large -
while, in this city place, all that country stuff
as well seemed so huge and so daunting.