UNDER THE SEA
ON PARK AVENUE
Sit, sit. Your ass on a marble slab. Some
architectural gobbledygook meant to have
a statement behind it. Only statement I ever
saw was 'no bums allowed' but written more
politely. I sit anyway, yes, yes.
-
There's some old guy inside here who plays a
free piano, all day. The usual - show tunes and
well-known croons, the kind of stuff people sing
to and request. And, really, they're only free if
you can abide a six dollar-coffee and nine-dollar
fried eggs. Some people just don't care.
-
I've got a collar up my leg today, and a sock
inside my head - that's what it all feels like.
A constant aching tooth that plies this wayward
home, and a paining, aching back that seems to
never want to quit. Oh well, the grace of age
comes forward to take the reins of this day.
-
What is any of it anyway. We're clobbered eventually
by this ever-rising toll of things : the harbor of the
messenger is the hostage of the king. All the same
in the end, whichever end that is. Some lady,
locked out of her car accidentally; she's
screaming like she just had a baby.
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