Wednesday, February 12, 2014

5054. IN NO MAN'S LAND

IN NO MAN'S LAND
Things are slow in this battle of wits. The red wine
is on the table, the bottle now again uncorked. We
are drinking the hours away. There aren't enough hours
to contain the day : 57th Street calls me like another
flask, but I hear from no one at all, and walk alone.
Now. Staggering only a bit, sideways. Into a wall I
remember from another time. Two construction guys 
are eating a lunch  -  plastic trays and paper bags, with
a cigarette each, them, not the bags, and they just watch.
Them, not the bags. I saunter by, thinking again of you
and where I left you sitting. I think I can remember the
getting back after the leaving is done. Who knows?
-
There's yet another food cart on the corner; it's lunchtime
and all these fools must eat again  -  small-talk and chirping
from the Paki guy sloshing his rice and lamb or something
onto trays, water and soda, forks and napkins  -  every
American invention known to street-eating henchmen of
the broad daylight. I see them all double, which only
makes it worse; now. Worse. Now. My intentions
were good, were noble, yes, yet now they've fallen 
away. Ah, things are slow in this battle of wits.

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