Flat as a carpet and threadbare's how I'll feel. You knew. Five years here and I've unlearned a lot then. The trains of this city were designed I now know to prove the existence of the sweltering human grapes I acquaint myself with twice a day in order to commute. The ease in the accountant's step as he farts to his chair indicates he's had lunch, he'll compute one more day. The endless chatter of Fukuda-san—the one who spectates, there—purports to indicate retirement pensions near. If I too live enough to retire I shall see a well-worn carpet track to my working desk. Fact is I was working on one but denied and changed job. I must start all over again. I now find pleasure in measured carpet work. Termites know. What with the earthquakes, this building might not last thirty years. Still. (1988)
Copyright ©2002 Olivier Serrat |
