Page 43 - Jack Foley | The true litterateur
P. 43

for “the letter killeth but the spirit”—the breath—
                 as the wind turns them (leaves)
                they seem to say
                 “Auld Ireland is calling”
                Thousands of Madrid residents protested President Reagan’s visit to Spain
                last night by banging on pots and pans and turning off their house lights—
                I tied my drum to the top of my lance—
                 farewell my sweet my
                 g’bye, love,

                 dark one, daughter— endlessly
                blond dark fair sweet bitter mild soft harsh fiery

                [SECOND VOICE, speaking simultaneously with FIRST VOICE]:

                —It might have been docks, it might have been blocks
                It might have been—surely—the school of hard knocks
                She might have detested all grandfather clocks
                Or declared that she never could bear to wear frocks
                But crossing her leotards (she didn’t wear socks)
                And squinting her eyes till she looked like a fox
                (Ignoring my comment on bagels and lox)
                She whispered obliquely, The subject is rocks.

                We sat in the coffee house breathing the air
                To the casual observer we hadn’t a care
                (It was Cambridge in Spring if you’ve ever been there)
                When fixing upon me her vacuous stare
                And assuming an attitude “born of despair”
                She rather ungracefully fell from her chair
                (The clamor they tell me resounded for blocks!)
                And whispered obliquely, The subject is rocks.

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