THE SLUG-HEAP
No, there's really no such thing, you say, just
open endings and dead-ends where illogic and
images play. I nod, and I have to agree.
-
I've been enrolled for thirty years in programs
that have brought me nowhere at all. Brusque
manners and rude opinions, of those I've got plenty;
friends I've lost and others I've sent away angry
and hurt. That too, I abound in. My lot is the same
as that sorry one, those jokes you used to hear:
-
The suitcase too fat to close, the submarine
with screen doors, the pumpkin that turned into
a coach, and then back again, and the sorry girl
inside, fearful once more of such transformation.
-
My signal light's gone out, and all those ships and
trains have crashed already. I am a widower in a
new widow's cloak - for all my world is done
and I am nearly alone. That, my friend, may be
the slug-heap you keep trying to disprove.
Spend some time with me and see.
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