Talking heads may talk a lot. This, from the walkingest girl in town.
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What may be the end of it all? The stars are shooting in the black night and the wishers are streetcorner-standers, tossing coins into cups as the traffic lights blink on, blink off over the empty streets. A tired man walks into the corner place to get a cup of joe, because his beard is growing no less gray and the working hours are long. He looks out the window with its backwards letters stuck on and though he is tired, he knows that the sun comes around again, yes, every time it comes.
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Jack and Jill ran up the hill
but I could never catch them
I bumped a rock and broke my crown
and said I wouldn’t fetch them.
My mama yelled, They’re goin’ fast!
Stop sleepin’ at the door!
My papa sighed, the raven flied,
and I said Nevermore.
Was chaos in the house that night
the kitchen-stove was hot
One hollered high, one hollered low
they hollered, all the lot.
I’m tired, please, just let me rest!
was all I could refrain
But ’course the holler house ain’t made
for sleep or staying sane.
Old Jack, old Jill, they’re lucky folk
the hill is pretty nice
If I had the peace of mind,
I’d run right up it twice.
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Chirren, gather round the stove, ’ey, an’ lissun to the song that goes a-floatin’ on the night. It’s a-come from the ol’ man that haunts round these streets, wearin’ nothin’ but a big black huntin’ hat an’ ol’ bluejean coveralls, all torn up at the stitches an’ seams. People round these parts says he wen’ an’ los’ ’is wits not long after losin’ ’is sweetheart, an’ I ’spect they speaks the truth. You chirren don’ know it, but once a man’s a-gone and gived ’is heart away, he’s as good as well called a dead man, iffen the place he’s a-sent it ain’t got room to keep it nice an’ safe for ’im. The way I reckon it, a man in love’s the braves’ and the mos’ scaredest thing on Earth. He kinda jus’ don’t know where he’s at.
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So Blue
Lis’n, child,
the blues are blowin’ mighty good
to-night
it’s a black old sky
an’ the work is done you in again
an’, child, life don’t look so fine
sometimes
but your people, they is tired, too
they sure is got them same old blues
an’ they blow them in the night
to-night, it’s a fine night all right
for the blues
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Portrait of a Girl
The girl in the corner sat perfectly still and balanced a breath on the curve of her lip. She did not or could not care that the place was positively brimming with people, many of them expiring sighs and shifting their weight from leg to leg because there were no seats to take, and though the fact of the matter was very plain – the girl was the size of a bird and her table was unusually grand – she did not show the slightest indication that she was thinking of making room. Her skin was fair, more or less the color of skimmed milk, that is to say, white with some thinness about it, and there was some translucence, too, making you recall a girl from a story who walked nightgowned in convalescence for a year or more. Now you noticed the girl in the corner had long hair, hanging straight and brown, and it was neither thick nor thin, but something uncertainly in the middle, though the individual strands were fine like silk; and she wore a black headband, simple and slim, not pushed too far toward the crown of her head, instead sitting inconspicuously above a row of very straight bangs. She had exceedingly green eyes and the white surrounding the green was exceedingly clear and together they were bright and round and when they looked out at you, you were struck dumb and thought to yourself that there was a beautiful girl, but you couldn’t say how you thought she was beautiful exactly, because she was so like a bird, and everything that touched her was vague and mute and on the point of flying away.
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I am writing this poem
on the loneliest, lo!
the heart-chokingest night
when all of the charm
and all of the light
have flown all away
have flapped out of sight
to rest all their heads
good-night, now
good-night.
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MY DEAREST ROSALINE,
The hours are maddeningly slow in passing, without your sweet little remarks to pretty the air and quicken the step of old Time, bachelor that he is. I fear that when I return to you I will be a much-whitened man, as the stillness of every day makes my stomach fat and my hair bored of keeping its color. I would that you forgive a man for his weakness, but oh, my own darling, what a parasite I shall make among your garden, fair rose of an hour! The wretchedness of this place leaves a stink upon my clothes, and how I shall curse myself for-ever to carry it home and defile your perfect place. If only a pauper could trade his rags for regalia, then all would be well and clean and good in this World.
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One Hundred Words
Heigh-ho! The boys are carrying rocks in their pockets and they’re headed off to the big pond, they call it the lake, behind Mr. Townshend’s garage, and they’re going to skip the rocks across the water, and whoever can skip the most is going to be king for a day, he’ll be the most impressive boy in town. When he goes home for supper, he’ll boast how he’s gone and skipped the rock better than any of his pals and grinning, he’ll pass the string beans with all the assurance of a boy the world, oh, couldn’t dare punish today.
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