MARCHING TO EUPHORIA
I am marching with a wobbled cane, the kind that's
made of rubber and gunk. It holds me nothing : the
people I pass look askance, thinking, 'Is that a cripple,
or just a jerk?' What do I care really anyhow? I have
misplaced yesterday's bankbook already, and my
imported wool suit itches. The bowler hat I think I'll
wear seems now too small for that. More like some
magical tea-man, sitting at deuce, and holding no
more cards. I am silent. I am silent, without a tongue.
There's a pile of books by the Bible-topped table, they
each bear a resemblance to something else : some old
tome about patience or want, some St. Thomas sermon
about duty and detail and love. Bores me silly now.
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