Mayflowers III 40 x 30 cm acrylic on canvas
JANE AUSTEN
The neighbors’ kid drops an ounce bag in the stairwell.
For his own good you and I smoke it to fine ash.
And even with that tiny shard of hypocrisy lodged
in our sore throats (the shit’s harsh) we continue to thrive.
A day later a delivery of bottled water’s swiped from our door mat.
As the philosopher said, payback’s a motherfucker. What philosopher? you ask.
But the kid, whom I call KING OF THE SLOTHS, is shockingly proactive.
There’s Mega Death Metal coming down at two in the morning.
Sleep becoming yet another essential we can’t afford.
Raises the question: how did he know it was us?
Wolfing down a dripping kebab at midnight, a little snack
after two liters of beer. My specs are in the shop, thus
from a distance mail boxes look a lot like the brainless heads,
mounted on spikes, of our treacherous neighbors. Drifting to us
from across the street, a girl’s voice: “Bellini. BELLINI? It’s not a
painter, dude, it’s a drink!” And then, straight out of another century,
CIVILITY GRACE STYLE are rolling down our street in a coach-
and-four. The scene gives off an aura of countrified elegance: always a
pleasure when lady Jane pays a call. Would it be rude of me to ask
her to sign relevant DVDs? Or pose questions about hygiene issues
in 19thcentury England, or why the Napoleonic wars never figure
in her stories? Or should I just keep my mouth shut? For once in my life.
