Love, 20 Cents the First Quarter Mile
By Kenneth Fearing


All right, I may have lied to you, and about you, and
made a few pronouncements a bit too sweeping,
perhaps, and possibly forgotten to tag the bases
here or there,

And damned your extravagance, and maligned your
tastes, and libeled your relatives, and slandered a
few of your friends,

O.K.,

Nevertheless, come back.


Come home. I will agree to forget the statements that
you issued so copiously to the neighbors and the press,

And you will forget that figment of your imagination,
the blond from Detroit;

I will agree that your lady friend who lives above us
is not crazy, bats, nutty as they come, but on the
contrary rather bright,

And you will concede that poor old Steinberg is neither
a drunk, nor a swindler, but simply a guy, on the
eccentric side, trying to get along.

(Are you listening, you bitch, and have you got this
straight?)


Because I forgive you, yes, for everything,

I forgive you for being beautiful and generous and wise,

I forgive you, to put it simply, for being alive, and
pardon you, in short, for being you.


Because tonight you are in my hair and eyes,

And every street light that our taxi passes shows me
you again, still you,

And because tonight all other nights are black, all
other hours are cold and far away, and now, this
minute, the stars are very near and bright.


Come back. We will have a celebration to end all celebrations.

We will invite the undertaker who lives beneath us,
and a couple of the boys from the office, and some
other friends,

And Steinberg, who is off the wagon, by the way, and
that insane woman who lives upstairs, and a few
reporters, if anything should break.