5815. YOU CAUGHT ME LEAVING

YOU CAUGHT ME LEAVING

There's no post on the fence and the August flowers

are now drying and getting pale  -  it seems as if, yes,

all things are winding down. Biblical growth, the growth

of an entire Spring and Summer, seems to flash away as

quickly as it comes. A few months of this, then more of that.

I don't take sides. I can like either. My fragrances come,

anyway, from a more heavenly scent  -  an odor of

accomplishment sent from above. 

-

It's not as if you must like me : you may look askance and

I'll survive. The tongue-lashing accrues to me as merely

work, more stuff I don't wish to do. Talk you yourself then,

if you want to. I'm open, but I won't drag you in.

-

How meddlesome, rally, can any of this be? I'm standing 

outside of Washington Irving's city home, at Irving Place

actually. This is not his estate'd mansion, upriver some, at

Irvington/Tarrytown. I like that too. This is, rather, a small and

crenulated little townhome on the corner of Irving, by 14th,

by Madison Park, where still the little flowers are growing

in his flower-boxes. No, OK, they're not his now, but so what.

-

I stay here, sometimes, as often as I wish  -  with a notebook or 

a sketchpad, sitting. There are benches for people like me, and

no one makes a bother. It's quiet enough, for New York City.

Not far away, there's some sort of high school of something or

other, but even that too is quiet. A big, enormous head of

Washington Irving is in place there, outside, at the corner too  -

some silly homage, a sculpture that really shouldn't be.

Everything gets over-sized when you deal with vanity.