Huck, With Music
This isn't the river, pirates, a boy cross-dressed to knock on a cabin
in nowhere, night, and fog—but then, why not? Five days overcast supposed
to break, and the woman at the next table wants her friend to understand it
isn't his fault. He's just careless, the way men are; it's his foreign style—Spanish, North African? Can't she forgive him? The woman who lived in that
cabin in the woods knew all along the girl in the bonnet was a boy. His
fingers couldn't thread the needle. She just didn't know where he came from,
or why. The gang leaders say they've come to clean up the streets, make it
safe for the old. The four I saw slouched in the convertible were laughing, a
sunny day, gold and diamonds sparkling in their ears as they squealed away
from the light. No one saw the gun, but I wasn't going to catch those eyes.
The lawyer quit, went back to the old school to learn a
different job, reading the news. He'll move to another state,
"find out what's really going on," tell the truth. Broad
daylight, caulking windows, and someone boosted the ladder we
stored in the gangway five years. How about that bridge with one
end stuck in the air, the crane sure it wouldn't move lodged in a
joint and all the traffic sent the other way? Murder every day.
Light drizzle. Whoever dismembered that girl when her car broke
down in the country ought to be shot. After the fair trial, of
course. A few more minutes, a phone call to finish business,
then home. The whipped cream always sinks into the coffee too
fast, though the taste is all we hoped.
They've found a molten pillar stretching through the mantle: we're not where we thought. We're drifting, and something else is pushing us around. Understand, this isn't complaint; I'm actually looking forward to dinner no matter the food, the usual company raising its din, whiskey, then screaming. At the end, with a little luck, there's sleep. Not what we imagined? Too bad, I suppose— On the other side of the world, the man who tried to save his country's farmers from oil is hanged. In our own desert, they're stealing treasures from the ancient dead. It may be history, but no one needs the broken jars. The signal the suburb counted on failed and more children were killed. Still, it's a long way from here and we don't know any of them. The sex is still out there, a guerilla whose arrival we pray for, as if it's the weapon we need to save us. Hindustan for Hindus only, the popular fascists cry. Just keep telling those wonderful stories, the letter that came from the Coast said yesterday. Maybe the shaking stops, and we can believe "the sky is pure and cold" as the next winter descends.