Winter 1948 • Vol. X No. 1 Poetry |


Of Eloise, the tall, sweet breasted one, now polished off between sleek Buick and rusty Pontiac on the giraffe spotted avenue, this is a song and a memory. She clutched our heart and senses when she was molested by death, but that is not what the cops will tell you once they have buttoned securely their respectable pants. The giraffe street grew delirious, even monkey-like with shrieks. And so it craned its disturbing neck through office windows, transoms, over water coolers, even aslant the maple desks and between the legs of bosses, to ask for pity, judgment, anger, fear or mercy, all the fodder life demands when the day goes somersaulting into awkward felonies. But the fat-girdled cops come to say: "It is well, it is well, hold your goldarned peace, the things she clutched were not your heart, nor anything nice. Just a purse stuffed with the mangled contrabands of love. Keep your kidneys dry. Look, it was Griffin's Shoewhite she had on her shoes; what more

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