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.