DISEASE MALARM'D
AND I DON'T CARE
The streets of Philadelphia, where they say there's an
arts district every five blocks, and then antique row, where
all the little guys go, showing lampshades and gowns. In
a piece, charcoal drawings and a little red wagon. 'Still
snowing', someone says, 'still here,' say I. I'm down now
at Elfreth Alley, watching all those funny tourists from
Independence Hall talk Betsey Ross to each other -
a language I never learned. 'I'm from Indiana', the pretty
one says, 'do you speak Betsey Ross?'
-
'No,' says I, 'I only drink pure coffee, from the goldmines
of Peru, where the warble-masters take their toast.'
-
Now, here it is, in the Philadelphia snow, I'm sitting
around a 4-story walk-up, a wonderful row-house I'd
love to own. The big TV is on, and these three freaky guys
are watching Godfather XXIII. Is that right? No, I don't
think - let it go. The fireproof landlord warden has just
arrived, and I hear someone else say,'when I come to visit
my mother, I don't want you anywhere around.'
-
How calm should I remain? There's a viscious disease now
easing these corners - I turned at Spruce and ended at 7th,
somewhere near Gianni's Trattoria for white eggs and grits.
Ah! Southern cuisine is brought home. The old Blackwood
cook, I already forget his name, no, no, Pete, he's returned
to serve me dinner. What a crazy world. Charcoal drawings
and a little red wagon. Fey guys in fedoras. My, my.
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