MISERY
I don't have the accolades of
malice or spite; nothing of that
sort to depend on. All I have is
misery, plain and simple. I drag
the sky with an edger, to have
it bleed.
-
The car-door that I'm hearing
sounds like a piece of inbred
metal, all squeak and blather.
They make spray-lubes for that,
I want to say, but this guy's
driving a planet, not a car.
-
So why bother? I never talk to
strangers who have no brains,
and this one's an easy mark,
taking ten minutes to mail a
letter, for pity's sake. And
what's he peering into the
mailbox for anyway? A
hidden snake? A viper of
venom? Another take into
the dark?
-
Go to Highsmith, old man;
write your ancient lady-love
another purloined letter: with
the snickers and foolish kisses
of memory and regret and,
yes, misery once again.
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