4092. BROUGHT FORTH

BROUGHT FORTH
First the Tuesday mailman enters, walking
in from Avenue B; lobby entryway, no man's
land. Is that perchance a flashlight in his hand?
No one seems to be sure, though they have seen
him before. These are target times, and this is
all some Democratic joke : nothing marked for
nothing, a few dollar bills with written codes in red.
-
I've been living here for sixteen months now, off and on. 
A new delightful chapter in a growing book of
time. Time? I've done mine : that little girl can tell
you, the kid in neighboring alley. Why am I here again?
-
Writing a book, a research screed on Poverty.
Power-madman-politics, the type these ward-heelers
and shysters love to work. They've promised me
seven thousand dollars, and a pre-publication deal -
just to get it done their way and make my conclusions
seal their assumptions. Every piece has to fit. By this
grand careers are planted, fed and raised. Yes. Yes.
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That potted plant grazes my hands, the water is
leaking all down the wall, the drain it is clogged and
the parrot cage - where once Hidalgo kept his Moluccan -
is empty to the wind and the air. Everything is just so sad.
-
They bury bodies in Christoforo Park. I know it, I've seen
it, yet I can't say a word. The big blue car, the guy with the
frosty tophat, and the gunman named Chig, they'll all be
around here again, by tomorrow at the latest. I know it.
I'm covering the scene for my Chapter 29. The one about
the dogs being poisoned in Ratherburn Gully. I'll bring
everything maybe forth someday. You just wait.