'PRISSY LITTLE BASTARDS'
You go far to get away, but you
always take your home with you.
It's a mitigating force; and something
which always lingers: the wrapper you
threw away, from the crap candy you
just ate. Those prissy little bastards
on their fire escape are just like that.
-
They have beveled snouts and flapping
mouths. Unlike the seasons or the winds,
they never change. The bakery boys can
tell you about carnage; their wives can
speak of the slaughter that comes next.
-
At the corner of 17th Street, I used to
stand and watch - the people slid by,
silently. As the seasons altered there'd
be scarves and then galoshes and boots.
Snows and lingering rain. They kept
coming all the same. I'd just walk off,
east to 11th Street, number 509. My
key was in my ankle holster, where I
kept my illegal gun.
-
Some days were sheet-metal gray,
while others turned green and then
faded away - the girls came out in
warm Spring, wearing their most
flimsy things, and boy wasn't that
a new pleasure. My lamplight grew
bright on every long light and each
new girl was truly a treasure.
-
Crowds, and bankers, and pretzel
men, hawking. The taxis converged
where they should have just merged -
the Brooklyn kids, having walked the
bridge, were looking for Guinness on
tap. For all the rest of the time, the
silence was deep and was genuine.
-
Derelict passings were re-purposed as
restaurant domes or transient homes:
flightless birds leading swallows to their
own foul gallows. Twenty-minutes down
was Chinatown : roast pork, and Jersey
tourists. How well together the whole
meal went, and I paid so little for it.
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