VIOLINS
(that circus is back in town)
It's the shady season once more soon - violins and
Vivaldi, beneath a tent. People milling to hear themselves
talk. Lemonade, mint juleps, all that sweet, watery crap.
The circus comes creeping back to North Brunswick,
the W.O.W fitness club billboard, shredded with lies,
blows wrinkles over bigtop and trapeze alike. Any number
of leaning cars, listing - Alabama plates and tee-shirted
babes spitting around like pontoons on the lam. Love grows
where my Rosemary goes, and Rosemary goes with me.
-
I want to watch this nitwit roll a cigarette - or whatever
it is he smokes. Two feet up on the dashboard of a Summer
car, his girlfriend dripping insouciance right next to him, his
tongue strikes out and licks. The cigarette paper. It curls
and seals around the woven tobacco. He smokes. She chokes,
a little. The pointed, triangular flag at the top of the pole snaps.
The wind, whistling around its Springtime lair, throws some
excitement into the most-lazy air. I'll take a shame-faced
moment in my own dumb fair. Count me as lucky as this.
-
The old man comes down off the ladder and farts.
He mumbles some kind of satisfaction, moves his leg
funny, and farts again. All he's doing is hanging signs and
testing the sausage sandwiches the new grill-man is
firing up : the local Board of Health got nothing on him.
No comments:
Post a Comment