'New feet grew from my chest': what a wonderful line, Ken. The grief /relief paradox after prolonged death so well captured.
Bill
On 26/02/2014, at 10:18 AM, Kenneth Wolman wrote:
> MY IMPERSONATION OF GENE KELLY
>
> When I walked down the hospital's granite steps
> in the February rain, it was all
> I could do to keep pied a terre,
> parked in stone to keep from skipping,
> wanting instead of the dignified mourner's gait
> to timestep in the downpour, throw out
> my arms, cry "Gotta dance!"
>
> New feet grew from my chest, air rushed
> to replace not the void but the smells
> of my mother's just-concluded deathwatch,
> the odors I'd sucked for a year, a universal
> tit of Lysol and talcum, of shit, piss, and
> human corruption. Feet wanted to leap into
> puddles, dance like Gene Kelly of my Saturday
> afternoon childhood, sing in the rain
> instead of laugh 'til I cried.
>
>
>
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