Monday, August 8, 2016


Men who built this garage
left traces : scrawl lines and
marks of concrete and hammer.
All like things left behind, these
lines. Now it's all just a memory
of what may have been said : I
was only 8 years old, but who's 
counting? They left an old suitcase
in the section of loft that was old
from before, maybe 1922. I looked
at the newspaper  -   Al Smith this,
Al Smith that. He was a New York
Governor or something, running for
something else. I didn't much care
and am never too affected by that
sort of tired news. What caught my
attention much better was the old
rope handle someone had woven to
hold together this broken valise.
If that's the word  -  suitcase, travel-
case, footlocker, who knows? We
opened it up, my father and I, 
and inside was a box of ivory 
dominoes and an old saxophone.
I loved that right off  -  the tarnish
on the sax was so bad it was 
almost black/green, in a shade I'd
never seen. Now, only now, I
look back, or think back, to what 
all this was and I can hardly 
remember a thing. Not even
exactly when or where it was.
Hard to understand all those bends
of time and circumstance. Al Smith?
I guess I can get a year from that, 
but that tells nothing  -  old papers 
were already old at the moment 
I'm speaking of. Or near. Nothing 
more to figure out, just the most
curious rope handle, as if
sent from above for
safekeeping, here.

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