9948. AT THE AIMING END OF TORMENT

AT THE AIMING END 

OF TORMENT

There's a silver car squished at the curb;

side-swiped, it seems, by a passing thoroughfare.

Nobody talks, they all just walk by. The moment

for discussion is over : a police sticker is on the

driver's door, and the two front wheels are bent,

with the tires flat. Someone's in a heap of trouble.

-

Down the street, just a bit, is the White Horse

Tavern, where, in this Summer air, people sit

out with their drinks and food. Lovers and

trysters, couples and friends. Men gawk, with

all that silly intent. The women look good

looking good.  At least I think they do.

-

Remaining perplexed, nothing happens. I

continue to watch for signs. I never see a

mockingbird in the city.  At home we have

at least five. Only twenty-miles off. Plenty

here of starlings and wrens and all those 

other low-cropped, noisy local birds. No

quite the charm but it will have to do.