THE MAN FROM THE MOUNTAIN
KEEPS CHANGING MY TITLE
Little did I know, from the day I was born, that
every single thing has secret meaning. The fellow
with the pushbroom, in the carnival aisle, he is
sweeping debris, to be sure, but finds - just as well -
dollars and quarters he can keep for himself. The little
kid with the gem or mineral in his hand, from the
rock store on 527, he's walking away with ideas of
'49 in his own small mind. 'I am a prospector for
gold!' he exclaims. I watch the lady at the register,
serene and stupid, watch him idly walking off. And,
then - you ask - how do I know she is stupid?
I can tell by the look on her face, and that's good
enough for me. Prospectors and mountain men,
all together, singing, can never make up
a perfect-pitch choir.
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