Sunday, May 4, 2014

5320. THESE ARE THE TIMES

THESE ARE THE TIMES
Here. With the end so near; the wind blows freely
and the curtains twist. The light through the kitchen
seems green. These are the times I remember. 
To try men's souls. To mend an offense.
-
Along the roadway, the old box factory, whitewashed
now and solid, is all closed up. There was a time, twenty
years back, when I'd pass it each day and, catching the
light, just watch the Spanish women at the window as
they worked towards dusk. All times of the year,
with a different light  -  they'd be in a row with, I
guess, a table at their waist. They'd each be seen,
picking up a big flat, flipping it over and  -  in some
form of a perfect motion  -  bending quickly at the
scores, the creased flat turning into a box.
-
I always thought it was rather magical :
theatrically made white boxes.

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