4495. BLACKIE COME HOME

BLACKIE COME HOME

Threnody, or something like that. The low

lights were on in the loft, where we sat for

six hours contemplating brooms and the

elevator's rise and fall. A soft, too-shuffle'd,

jazz played in the background; paint cans

were lidless, lined up along the wall, and

some fat brushes were drying in the glop.

'The man's gone now, gone, and no more

to go, just gone.' A few people softly tipped

in making for the gloom like a fly and sugar.

-

'It won't never be like this again, and it ain't

ever was before anyways.' I couldn't figure

what that meant, yet the spectral figure who

spoke it did have something on his mind. We

all had kept to a certain sadness, and now it

just wouldn't go away. On the rear wall, in the

half-light, the big painting showed a majesty

I'd always sensed; like it was doing right.

-

'Right by me jes' gotta' be right by Jayne too;

and even if he's gone now, someone of us is

gotta' pick up these ruinous pieces.' So we

pledged, right then, by booze and by fire, by

coffee and beer. 'Everything stays,

we ain't going nowhere.'