3068. AT THE HOSTILE GARRETT

AT THE HOSTILE GARRETT

Samuel Barber and his Adagio for Strings,
why yes, OK. I listen again. Outside the
window, another form of weather strikes,
the low sound of some creature pines, and
the wind whistles the branches soon green.
Low as this, the sky too groans.
-
We are together like a fist. All across the
room, a dim light gathers and each corner
still dark allows forms to jumble. My
new friend, Mr. Arcora, I watch as he
slithers back into his jacket and the
newspaper falls from his grip.
It splashes the floor like paper water
and we are all still listening to that
Adagio for Strings.
-
There is no field joust as good as
any of this. The thin girl, with the
graceful hands, she rounds up
her things and prepares to leave -
this room, or this world, I'm not
quite sure which. I spoke to her
once, and she laughed back,
energetic and happy, it seemed.
-
Outside, in the street, I see now that
new raindrops are falling - hard, they
splash as they hit the pavement. In
this early morning light, it's as if
a new sort of bombardment,
small and soft, has begun.