IF YOU TAKE A
POCKET TO HIDE IN
The Winter ship was snaking downward, tilting to
the angle of the waves. This was once the site of a
boat yard - the last ship that Abraham Lincoln ever
rode on was built right here - he was dead the very
next week. It's the truth, and it's in Keyport, but the
incidentals right now, yes, I forget. From there to
the Potomac, where Lincoln sailed to Baltimore
Harbor. With Daffy Duck and someone only he
called Ingrid Mouse. Or Ingrid Mousse; I forget.
Right now, anyway, I sit in Keyport, both haggard
and tired, nursing a slingshot coffee in a place called
Joe's, or Joe Coffee, or something; once again I
can't recall. ('I got no memory for anything at all').
I think that was a Genesis song, a long time ago,
when Phil Collins was still singing their turgid shit,
and when he still had a head of hair too. I think.
I forget. I could be wrong. If you take a pocket
to hide in, you'll never know really at all. Out in
front of me, a few harbor boats are scatting around,
and on the wooden walkways people fish - mostly
it seems old people, or Mexican hostelry types, with
their eternally noisome kids. It won't do to shut them
up, and anyway, all those old retirees and their ridiculous
clothes and questions and attitudes, they're worse, by far.
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