3457. IN SALEM

IN SALEM

To the sidepiece that avers to nothing at all, nor

to the rumors of wars and insurrections we

seem always to hear, I say I will kill this man with

menace of my own. I've taken the rail to Beacon,

dined at the Marble Arch, sat adjacent to

Zelda where once she roomed with God, and

even  -  to this I swear  -  walked a tightrope

with Philip Petit over the top of Mount Beacon.

Everything has left me breathless and broke.

B-b-buddy, can you spare a dime?

-

Reduced to my most simple motivations, I

am the fellow who whitewashed the bench,

painted yellow the orange door, and washed

the Sunday windows all backwards with lye.

-

Once there was priest who came into my room :

he muttered beneath the table and asked to see

the painting on the wall. I walked him towards the

window and pushed him out. That was 1968, and that

cat's still as dead as they come. Black wastrel

bastard frock-coated collar-wearing Saint Infectious

that he was. And his brother, I know, still lives in Salem.

-

B-b-buddy, can you spare a dime?