Thursday, September 10, 2015
Island Life
Islands of a certain size sort themselves
as to conveniences and sin. Thus the
small hotel.
Plus the restaurant, the pharmacy, hardware,
etc. Where the longer relationships build
to climaxes boring or fatal.
The rare body found, native anyway. For some
reason the tourists kill themselves more often.
The last one covered with snails.
A new teacher comes from the mainland and the
gossips assign her to a married man.
The bachelors without the staying power required.
At any rate, a buzzing during the day of the energy
of moderate money and immoderate sex.
It quiets at latest night, fires banked. Except for the
baker who rises at three and walks a block to his tables
and ovens.
The first stirrings of the rest of the village prompted
by the aromas of his loaves and rolls.
The more acrid one of brewing coffee adds in
from separate, lighted, places.
His pretty wife opens the shop at six. At eight he’s
home drinking gallons of water, followed by whiskey.
Then, cursing at the newspaper to sleeping like
a redolent brick.
She closes the shop at twilight. Taking long
walks in sturdy boots before facing his snoring.
The gossips leave her alone, understanding her
function completely.
The affairs of the village provide them enough.
It’s almost as if they arrange them.
Labels: affair, bachelor, body, gossip, hotel, island, lust, married, murder
