augury doggerel

Friday, June 28, 2002


The sun is still catching the orange building across the street, over the tram tracks, and a pigeon inspects each brick with its toes. I'm thinking about Daisy Miller and A Midsummer Night's Dream. On the bus to and from work and between minutes, I'm reading them both, drop by drop, mixing them like drinks. There's fine weather.

Two girls out together have just skirted through this place and made me put down my pen for a minute. They're gone now and never saw me, like birds through a window, but here I am still thinking about them. If you were ever a girl, think of this, of how new and smooth you were, and of how you were often there without knowing it.

It must be evening, but there's still light. The sun grabs its hat and makes for the door these days without ever quite leaving. It's never dark enough to make a guy go home, never dark enough to sleep anymore. The bartender is fixing another keg to the taps, crack and hiss and stop.

My left arm aches and I'm full of pub poisons, and work digs a beak into my entrails and pulls, but if I kicked now, this would be almost enough. I feel my face warm, and maybe I'll go home soon, but my leg has pins and needles from sitting and there's smoke whirling and still somehow there's orange sun on the wall just across the street.

And isn't pastiche something you spread on crackers?


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