augury doggerel

Monday, July 28, 2003


Two round brothers driven in from the farm on a weekend morning. One walks the sidewalk and calls 'potatoes' up to our apartments. The other crawls a truck along the curb behind him. I mumble "bring out your dead" and amuse myself. The driver is smoking and watching for faces in windows. I shake my head when he looks at me. He listens to the truck radio: "Trams like comets, they have no rest... sun beating down, from building to building... sand in hair, and the sea... everything ends and begins here, Gdansk, Sopot, Gdynia." Nobody leans out to buy potatoes. Even granny has slipped her apron and gone to the sea.


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