8664. CONSTABLE PURDY

CONSTABLE PURDY 

Here come the walking morning dead

presuming they presume again another

day. It's all the same : checkerboard 

washcloths and lame-brained tentacles.

Someone here seeks to order squid.

-

The 18-year old domestic who here

waits tables is doing her work for hire.

She's just had a kid and tells about it.

By the side of the building, the guy

with the rifle is glinting his carbine

straight for my eyes. Nice enough.

-

I want to cough, but can't be accused

of pneumonia. I want to yell and rant,

but can't be accused of that either.

Too much to lose, and I don't mean

Lautrec. They're trying to sell a '37

Ford in the side-lot nearby. Really,

really clean, new paint and sweet

as hell. I'd ask the price, if only

I had any money. I'm even afraid

to talk to the waitress, for fear of

getting friendly and raising the
tip. Egads! What a jerk.
-
Here is where the river-road runs;
where they took away the village
years ago; where they left the old
church hanging, like they always do.
Five houses, over there, solid in a
row, just slowly over time now fall
apart. A hundred hornets, and a
haystack window. The old police
station, at the edge, where the ancient
gas pump wires home for money now.
-
'Constable Purdy, send me something
here, today, right now, somehow!'