OWNING THE HEAT EXCHANGER
My running glance at the locomotive
dial showed me nothing amiss. Another
cuckolded heavyweight, running by.
Fifteen seats down the row, two Mexicans
who wouldn't shut up their cackle. That
Mexican landscape giggle, that contractor
cement-guy tone. One guy, the grunty
one, about five feet four with a cowboy
hat face, was still covered somehow in
plaster from his long day's work. 'Cept
it was only two pm. I can picture him
in stilts at midnight, begging change.
They keep small-bone children in
drawers at home, 9 or 10 at a time.
They have wives who incessantly
groan while the clouds at noontime
hasten. This is what my own world
has now come to : getting on at
Newark, to get off in New
Brunswick. A whole New
Caledonia nation of
chaparral men,
No comments:
Post a Comment