STOOL PIGEON
I know what that means - that filthy bird
that hangs around shit. The flowers are all
gone and I don't care. Pavement and the
workers that go with it have come to town;
they've replaced many lawns with lumber.
Small cars owned by students boarding in
the rooms above are cluttering the lots along
the way - I can see the people coming down
to the streets; upon their places and upon their
ways. To something else I'd guess, but not
guess at. I wonder why it's me who gets all
the space to tell these tales, make these words.
Back in Bayonne I can remember my own;
my grandmother - saying she was going to
the 'terlet to make water.' How is it that people
speak their natural language so strangely? Or is
it not natural at all? Sometimes I knew what
she was going to say before she said it and it
was all nothing at all. Strange ways and I am
bereft. I have no honor; left at the gate as it
was. My home was a great arm, which I used
to maneuver things around me - to get me out
of place and bring me along to something else.
The men of Art, and all their boozing women.
No comments:
Post a Comment