SO NOW THEY HAVE
DISCOVERED LAYERING?
It's an obscure parable, buried now deep
in some book of outward lies : Things
which are not what they seem; the frog,
croaking with the quack of a duck.
-
Outside of the firehouse in Elizabeth,
across from where the old library
still stands, (No. No. I do now know
why; it may as well bolster the beams
of some madhouse on Canarsie Road
where none can read), I watched the
fireman walk to the rear of the building
- his odd jacket some curt iridescent glow
and with a day-glo yellow plastic stripe.
-
No words were spoken, and I don't
even think he saw me watching. He
stood at the fence, to peer into the
river, it seemed. Stream? Streamed?
-
To my left, there was City Hall, a
Firemens' Memorial Wall (called
Last Call or Final Alarm or something
of that nature). The jail, a church, and
a very old cemetery. Which, for me,
right then, was really all that counted.
-
In line with thinking, of the Final Call;
though the gates were locked, I felt I
could jump them all - though to no
avail. When it's not your time, it's
not your time. (I've layers left
to end this tale?)….
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