GHOST TOWN
Not content with rocks and
gravel, I kept pressing on. This
land was made of a different
soil; getting harder by the
minute. I figured : Maybe I
was on to something. You
can't land a plane in the water,
and you can't sail a ship on
solid ground. Fairy self-evident
premises; each, maybe. Now
I am high up, above the valley
below.
-
I will call it Willy, that bald-eagle
I see flying. This Narrowsburg
precipice just out of town lends
itself here to all fantasy. Yes,
though I am sad for all the losses,
this disease keeps running things
through. The bookstore's a joke,
and the wine store is gone too.
-
They shut the big restaurant down,
and, even though the weekend is
here, there's no crowd to partake
if they hadn't. We are ghouls now,
in a very tattered land. Even the
library stays shuttered.
-
Some New York City people
stutter around, trying to see things
to see. They're like that, always.
Facemasks with messages, or
replacement grins from a funhouse
mirror; they remain in place for
too long, and then when they
move it's with some indirect
aplomb - seeking nothing, which
is the same as something, here.
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