Tuesday, October 14, 2014

6004. PAINTING THE TOWN RED

PAINTING THE TOWN RED
For painting this town red you get five years  -  
hard labor or not, all that's up to you. There's 
coffee in the deep-dish morning, if you can find
your way through the dark of night. Some ghouls
and spirits there won't let you be. Annoyances abound.
The rich-cabs, town cars and limousines, in the dawn they
sit and curbs and idle for the morning debutantes who make
their way. I've seen them, NYC TV people, on their way
 from Princeton to their studios in private car transport. 
The drivers are so cool as they sit and wait. Right outside 
D'Angelo's Italian market, there's always two at dawn. 
Over at Small World, where they wrestle every day with the 
coffee kin, I love to watch them go at it  -  memories larger 
than mine for words describing all those 'beverage' orders 
outlaid for the nonce. Only a few minutes. Never a lifetime 
sentence. Yes, and all that goes for clothes; not my
feeble daily rags, I mean 'clothes', the kind the big stores
 sell, the rich array of form and fit and fabric  -  everything
 for the king or queen who wears it. Language and words,
 clothes and jewels, all that together in painting this town red. 
Somehow. Red.

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