SWING-SHIRT SIREN WHISTLE
Everything not tied down is gone : they've stolen all the
works of my heart and mind, and taken them away,
and pickled them in some throne-room of their own
sordid gossip and small-talk and filth. How does one
take back what isn't theirs once they've got it.
'Ownership? That's just a name; now you have
to prove it.' Half a world away.
-
The Hong Kong tailor, I notice, is back again,
hawking custom-fitted shirts, fabric cut precise.
He's only in town for these two weeks, so please
come order your gear, now. Rubber-fit water
shoes, curvaceous scarves and overcoats too.
Winter comes again, y'know. I think the last
thing I need is a two-hundred dollar shirt.
-
Gibberish, all this talk. Cambridge fabrics and
lamb's wool ears. Or Cambridge ears and lamb's
wool fabrics. I don't know. It's Easter in the alley
and the rain it seems suspended. That guy sure
looks to me like a Mafia don, even with the
stupid red carnation pinned to his lapel.
Easter, Schmeaster, what the Hell.
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