“Excuse me for thinking the banana eating contest
was about eating a banana.” (Gilmore Girls)
I would like to talk about a lot, here, but think
the better of it just as soon as I have got, dear,
the blink I always get from you: that visual
equivalent of nervous clink of glass: spot of –
fear? – quickly past – masquerading as the terribly
persuasive sigh that signals “bored.” They say
the writers’ strike is over but – something’s
striking like a gong in me: won’t be long before
you join the throng of absentees beyond the next
hill past my heart, arrayed to play their dark
collective part in demonstrating the completeness
of departure – celebrating, stunned, as if at
yet another end of World War One: bedecked
with garlands, swags and bands: mopping
brows, all circumspect: marching through
an avenue of stately poplars: Doppler effects –
attenuated breaths: incantatory rituals of loss.
One tosses up one’s syllables predictably. Stick
with me, my little shrew – even if you’ve found
no clue whatever in this striking writer’s stew what
any of it possibly could have to do with you.
.
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