3764 . A PAEAN TO MANANJA

A PAEAN TO MANANJA

They found her in the park -

it was said search dogs sniffed 

her out. Why anyone would put

a body beneath piles of dead leaves

and sticks still badgers my mind.

She'd been dead, it was also said,

at least seventeen weeks.

-

I've never like any tertiary city -

some idle Baltimore of a small-thinking

mind. Poe died here, OK, I grant you

that, but - anyway - even he mostly

lived elsewhere. The citadel which passes

for a cathedral here, I swear it's so

calm its incense lingers for weeks.

-

Incredible to be here, and just

listen how well everyone knows their

lines : 'I've been doing this for nine

years now, the dogs always do their

job, and each one of these homeless

murders and abandoned body-drops

still hurt.' He might have added, 'And I

hate newspeople like you, lurking around.'

-

There will be more, and they are coming  -

that old body festers, alike and kin to anything

else that ever once was. And what, anyway,

will they find? Some panting, crazed madman

jerking off to pictures? Some crafty parolee,

back out to kill, on the streets again? Some

fat, jolly priest you'd expect the least, or a

brother or a father out on the town? Who 

is it all, and what can it matter now?

-

I beg to differ with most things.

I take a moment before I speak.

And now, I reach down to grab some

dirt, a paean to Mananja's stink.