Wednesday, March 15, 2017

9293. TIRE OF THEN

TIRE OF THEN
I am looking back, then, over pages
but cannot recognize a thing at all.
Not the electric lights, or the vape 
of the child-emotions sunning in
their good, and naive, intentions.
Wanting none of that at all, I move
off, and away. Like Mallarme, I 
seem to have lost an intention of
symbolic motive's intent.
-
When men come to work, they back
up their trucks, to park for the day.
I can see them in this early light.
No one say much of anything, just
mumble. Walking by with their
lunch pail filled. The only real
burden seems their tools and a
sandwich. But not yet, please.
-
Each has movement in the dismal
encampment of time they inhabit. 
Soon there is nothing more.
-
Here, then, beside me, on this
wicked bachelor train, the ladies
are applying makeup as they sit  - 
swaying slightly from the ride, they
stay in tune, or try, at least, to set
their poise for lips and eyes in tiny
mirrors taken from polka-dot purses.
-
Kerchiefs of armature, with wide 
seats and out-stretched arms, they 
soon stumble in place for phones 
and their units of personal contact : 
Shoppers-World bags filled with
trinkets, a leather handbag of gold.
-
Linden. Elizabeth. Two by two
they enter new  -  the pasty corn-fed
Mexicans of language, the gutted
two-step laborers of Newark. All
together, and with nothing to
forgive, another Fernandez meets
another Montezuma, and smiles.
-
You'd better sharpen those kitchen 
swords, ye loamy ladies of the
morning. For soon your men are
coming back  -  see what will
they tire of then, a'swarming.


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