Wayne Noone
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Conrad Conrad, I never knew you so there's no use in asking, is there about the time I gently shook your shoulder to wake you lest you miss our stop and I noticed as you slumped in your seat the way your ruddy hair curlicued at your nape, wonder when the last time was a woman cupped her hand across and drew your face to hers, the last time your son laced his fingers round to be lifted for a kiss, too late now to ask how it was, not that you would ever tell me, and cannot tell me now, you are lost in insignificance like the marble plaque on Smithfield marking the limit of the Great Fire of 45 that no one remembers, recessed into the wall of the Landmark Building, coated in the grime of generations, coal and coke and fumes and walked past each day unobserved, you are lost. I remember waiting with you in the darkness for the 38C, watching the snow whirlpool on the asphalt, you with your cheap tan jacket drawn up around your neck, listening to your walkman, nodding your head to the music, no use in asking if the song is the same I hear as I stand today in August in front of George Aiken's smelling the broasted chicken and looking across Fifth at the old woman shaded in the doorway of the gutted Murphy's, her brown hang dog at her feet, playing Twilight Time on her flute. Our Lady of August It is good to be here between battles with the damned near harvest moon reflecting in the stones of the Russian cemetery and the rabbits jostling the cyclone fence while the water drips from the rusted gray window units, remembering Mary bending over me as I sleep with her turtle eyes and flowery breath, her blue veil surrounding my face as with her tiny pink tongue like a cat she licks the blood from my lips. If it were not so The women carry their babies nervously in their wombs or indifferently in blankets. Their men are disinterested, talking diffidently among themselves, small talk, furtive grins over muddy jokes, eyes shifting. The world too is indifferent, notching down imperceptibly, burnt wax and ozone, no late summer peaches. Richard worries about the state of his health, his children, drinks gin on weekends. I ask him over lunch will it hurt. Only for a second. I stand in the kitchen at the backdoor drinking instant coffee black. My nails are long and yellow. Sound of a shotgun on the hill behind the house. Fall approaches, only for a second. Main Page
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