BRING THIS FORTUNE
TO ORDER
(at sutton place, above the east river)
The man with the catacomb face was pulling
the hood up over his head. It wasn't that cold
out, but I could understand his feelings. Near his
head, to the side, the glass of the gold doorway
reflected, to me, the side of his face, in a profile
I suddenly realized he'd never see. Couldn't. None
of us can. At the curb, an amiable Buick drew up
to the doorway, and two ladies got out. He was
putting on gloves and they all walked off. Mother,
perhaps? Wife and daughter? Off to dinner, like a
cow to slaughter? Bring this fortune, please, to order.
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