PICKING SIDES
The beautiful coverlet that you gave me when
I was born, I was told anyway, is still here with
me, threadbare and barren, stitches missing and
in need of heavy repair. I await you here too, in
the boneyard of the slaughterhouse of comfort.
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'Contagion' is in the one marked 'C'. Same with
coma, and commnication too. I get confused myself,
to tell the truth, between comity and comedy, and
where each should be. Or even what the difference
is. Some things are too simple to matter.
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Route One runs down off the spine of Elizabeth.
New Jersey, I mean; not a girl. There's never
been a worse place than that, to me - a themeless
place, without design and bereft of sense. I usually
try to leave it quickly. Jersey Ave., or Route One
again. But the traffic's always thankless and only
little moves. The whole place is sluggish.
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That brings me, if I enter that way leaving, into
Roselle Park and/or Roselle. There's a difference,
I'm told, and with pride the locals make it. Roselle
is the classless one, the brooding slum, the big O
in the world of nOthing. Roselle Park - on its
other hand - takes pride in lawns, and cars,
and paint. Large issues for a minor, I suppose.
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I've had friends in either place. Jill and Bill, Ron
and Steve. They all lived apart, and yet the same.
Enthused and grown and happy and strong. I wish
I could see them now, even though this Devil has
horns enough today to take sides. Jill has a dog,
and is a Grandma as well. Bill rides his Harley like
a shadow beyond the service of every doubt. All
things are good if you live. Where? No matter.
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