THE MILL ON
THE FLOSS
(AGAIN)
(blank man on a
withering
oasis)
One times one times two : we make our
meek adjustments, we are sure of that.
Outside this distinct overture, the black
parking lot holds few cars : a man and his
companion sweetly walking hand in hand,
and a ten-year old Cadillac, waiting. It is
a courthouse, behind them, or so it seems.
-
A newspaper stand out front, so old as to be
over, holds a black man with a coin apron -
just another thing I have not seen for fifteen
years. No one wants the news these days,
nor reads it either, whether paper or not.
Mouths talk and grumble far better than
do printed words. Everyone rushes on.
-
It is a month supposed to be cold, but not.
A black mark on the calendar, something
that didn't work, never came to be : no white
cover of snow, no pale mantle of ice and water.
'A very calm February, we've had, sir.' I nod,
and notice that kid looking back at me, as if to
whistle or sing. I realize he's holding a broom.
-
Life is like that - a slow and long decline
into
darkness, into bleak black from brighter white.
I never knew why, but knew it, sensed it all
coming on. This day feels like Tuesday, though
it's not. And now, as well, this time feels like
another time, and well it is. I am past all that:
a blank man on a withering oasis.
No comments:
Post a Comment