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Hudson Plumb 

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Seymour’s Fat Lady in New York

 

“There isn't anyone anywhere who isn't Seymour's Fat Lady. Don't you know that?” 
                                                                       ― J.D. Salinger, Franny and Zooey

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I bet she looked like you

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    her veiny legs bulging like Popeye's arms

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her feet overflowing her shoes like pudding

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     but you have no shoes

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   just plastic bags wrapped around a sock

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and a shopping cart full of aluminum cans

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manic monologuer

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you dance the rhumba on Fifth Avenue

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    pillage green garbage bags at night

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    outside Park Avenue awnings

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afternoons you splay out like an inverse Y

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   on the sidewalk

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sucking Thunderbird

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    or stuffing a Danish

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I see you camped out in a concrete cul-de-sac

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   watching a television wired

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      to the corner lamp

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the balding executives walk by

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    and admire your full head of hair

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Dreams_Upon.jpg

you notice a sound

but then suddenly present—

or an infant’s cry,

and elsewhere the sensation of breathing,

expanding and contracting,

like Plato’s cave people

and thinking they were everything,

splashed black on a wall—

special names, special stories

and how they acquired names,

and what they meant,

quietly comforting,

except for the nagging thought

about something hidden,

​something buried in the mind,

something not really there at all

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you notice a movie

of your eyelids

a screen that is dark, but not fully dark—

you watch your thoughts pass like clouds,

some of them gathering,

until all at once

from the beginning—

in the sky of the mind

in the sky of the mind
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in the sky of the mind

as if it were prior

the distant report of a car alarm,

or a thin, ringing whine in one ear,

the tingling of tissues moving,

as you experience them but can’t be sure,

watching shadows on a wall

everything—the entire universe

and giving the shadows names,

about the histories of the shadows

and where they came from,

and finding those stories

quietly mesmerizing,

that appears in the mind

something imagined,

something not on the wall,

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in the sky of the mind

projecting against the curtain

against the shimmering darkness—

and against this screen

some of them darkening,

some of them circling,

you begin again—

in the sky of the mind,

THE COURTSHIP OF WINDS

© 2015 by William Ray

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