5895. LIKE XERXES, THE FABRIC OF A FOOL

LIKE XERXES, THE 

FABRIC OF A FOOL

High on a lark, the butter in the tray melts on, 

the thin light from the kitchen air spills out, the 

freshening air seems everywhere. I am hiding in 

a cauldron  -  reading literature like labels on a 

can. Throw this down! I no longer wish to see!

-

The time for talk is past, and anyway, everyone

gets it wrong : story lines become exhausted over 

time. 'Oh Madame X, your backside is showing, 

Oh Mr Wilk, I can see the bulge of that gun in 

your belt. The peasants are restless again, and 

their uprising, as did the last one, will take them 

to nowhere but death. More troubles abound than 

these streets are worth. All those girls, collaborators, 

those who've slept with the enemy in comfort and

solace, their heads have already been shaved.'

-

Now, these marvelous marbles are rolling their due.

Heads will roll as they have before. The cardinal will

step down from his throne and seduce with a papal logic

the masses  -  they run in flames and fires to subdue the

godless foes! Yet, yet, that little old lady, sorrowful and

alone, remains crying in her steeple, sewing still from

her morn to her night, for the partisans in hiding.

-

High on a lark, I am reading literature, 

while hiding, myself, within a cauldron.