'IF IT'S DOWN THERE ALREADY IT CANNOT FALL NO MORE'
Yes, yes, I've got plenty of ideas. Mr. Misfit
lives right here. Closing my eyes only brings
me a memory. More of that and I'll be gone.
I can never tell myself exactly what I want:
a glandular table to place things upon, or
a nice soft floor where things can land
as they fall. Outside the Milano Deli,
those girls insist on eating in threes.
One wears the scarf of a foreign land;
something about Gay Paree. The other
has, in one of her hands, a new telescope,
in a box. New York people often use
them, from upper floors - looking out,
or down, or - so I've read - just across
the way at what their neighbor does. All
so true, but patently eerie.
There is a third girl, but I won't tell. She's
been forced to make this trio, I know.
Doesn't look it, can't be right, won't fit
in. An eyelash of discontent. A shadow
of alienation. The doubting hands
of a female Thomas.