 |
 |
Latest, with which I'm pleased ... Any response? ... Tuna Melt He liked such places more than he could say. A mumbling speedfreak busboy cleared away the old, slapped down a new soiled fork and plate. The wrinkled waitress, focusing her hate, mistook his order, meanwhile loosely pouring some cloudy lukewarm stuff he sat adoring, tasting the walls, the clientele, the grill. He peered and ate delightedly until the shadow of the offices across the street dispersed as if the sun were boss for fifteen minutes, looking in. He waited. The coming horror could not be overstated. It might take place outside, where ambulances, tour-buses, cruisers, cabs were taking chances past lesser vehicles, and passersby at great unconscious length prepared to die while, armed, an as-yet unembodied grin began to light … It might occur within. Or not. That place is safe, if any is, whose sadness welcomes other sadnesses. That place is good, is home, which lets one sit, will never close till someone closes it, and fills your cup unasked while you think, vaguely: evil is better than being simply ugly.