LET'S NOT LEAVE THIS YET
All of the helpers who've come to stay are gone.
It's a powerful lot : men - like soldiers - standing straight
with their ramrod stiffs and concrete hands. For myself,
I have nothing to show. I've left two lamps behind, the
niggardly portion of food in my mouth has been taken
already by worms and maggots, the blanket near my head
is damp, and workmen outside have put barriers in place.
-
This is a picture-book enticement, I know. I feel like the
Tomb of the Unknown, or a classical man from ancient
Greek myth. I am endowed with a scholarship of want.
Just as the lights fade, the blaring music begins : trumpets
and cymbals, like carrion at a Sunday feast. Every town
has a bandshell, Sayre, Towanda, even Washington's
Crossing, with nothing playing in it but memories and lies.
-
Want to be reading Baudelaire again? With me? We can
comment on such towns as villages we may find along the
way. Parasols, prostitutes, and pilgrims abounding.
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