DAY OF THE LOCUST
On the day of the locust I was in
Brooklyn, waiting my turn at
Grimaldi's; watching the bridge
throw its harbor-fleet shadows
now over nothing at all. Tonnage
and cargo, long gone, had absconded
to regions that only the netherworld
knew. A maritime flag on the outpost
wharf? It simply signified yet
another place to wine and dine.
-
A hundred faces paced the walk -
those strange tattooed artists and
their bedfellow girls, those pierced
and dainty females all done up for
voyeuristic sex and the ribald
entertainments of Lebanese
sharks. Why am I waiting,
here at Grimaldi's, for
really nothing at all?
-
Everything is accidental,
and sharpshooters run
rampant all along the
shoddy rooflines.
On the day of the locust I was in
Brooklyn, waiting my turn at
Grimaldi's; watching the bridge
throw its harbor-fleet shadows
now over nothing at all. Tonnage
and cargo, long gone, had absconded
to regions that only the netherworld
knew. A maritime flag on the outpost
wharf? It simply signified yet
another place to wine and dine.
-
A hundred faces paced the walk -
those strange tattooed artists and
their bedfellow girls, those pierced
and dainty females all done up for
voyeuristic sex and the ribald
entertainments of Lebanese
sharks. Why am I waiting,
here at Grimaldi's, for
really nothing at all?
-
Everything is accidental,
and sharpshooters run
rampant all along the
shoddy rooflines.
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