THE HARPIST
HAS A SITUATION
Benevolence is a fine meaning - things done
with good intentions, a caliber of money and
finesse. Touching a soul, shaking a hand.
Here, in the yellowing library, next to the
wall with the clock which can't work, I
am sitting at a wide wooden table. This
is a luxury panel of people to question.
Someone keeps grunting and I can only
guess today's world forgives everything.
I'd like to just punch him down, but it's
probably a syndrome he's got and I'm
not allowed to frown : salacious mugging,
uncontrolloable noises, that all gets loved
to death now. My god, aren't they sweet?
These crippled endives of human torches,
that really make me sour. Outside, the little
snow is piling up, quiet and steady, and white.
Can I say that? The library lady announces they'll
be closing at three, because of inclement weather.
I ask her 'the broken clock won't help me; can I
plead ignorance too?' She doesn't get the joke.
Somewhere behind me, the far-off man again
grunts aloud, and his foul groans are
taken for legion.
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