The phone sat at his side for two days. Stagnant air, sweaty, opaque enclosed the house- Uterine walls suffocating the adult fetus within- A birth long overdue—silence screamed at him.
Measured portion of bran and fruit—no coffee—some juice instead.
another procession of measured meals and self-injected insulin. . . . Running out of places where the skin's not pricked.
Kyrie Eleison.
He roamed through deserted room after deserted room with whispers haunting where his mother was- the funeral dirge, the cousin twice removed, the chicken soup and ham and cheese, the lapel rent, the priest paid. He fluffed the pillows—straightened the shade.
Measured portion of fruit—green salad, no salt . . . another in procession of measured meals and sel-injected insulin. Running out of places where the skin's not pricked.
Kyrie Eleison.
He turned on the iron. Filled the water just so. Readied the starch, removed the plastic and tags and pressed. He had an important date and must get dressed. Every wrinkle gone. Handkerchief and undershirt clean. But there seemed no end to the wrinkles and he scorched the shirt—but on the tucked-in part. It wouldn't show. Measured portion of fish and greens—bottled water. . . Another in procession of measured meals and self-injected insulin, Running out of places where the skin's not pricked.
Kyrie Eleison.
He took the polished key. Unlocked the drawer. Sifted through neatly stacked statements. Wrote the checks. Stamped them paid. Two months ahead. Should be enough. Returned the key. Thoughts of all he owned. Empty, hollow thoughts. then turned instead and read from "Prufrock" and The Confessions, donning mendicant robes. Insensed air around the pallid priest, "pater noster, qui est in calis." A blessed Saint Anthony. A cup of tea. A peach. Running out of places where the skin's not pricked.
Kyrie Eleison.
"Keep things private. All's in order," he wrote.
Dressed in pressed clothes--(Dawn comes soon after the moon falls)— "Mustn't be late. 440 to 65 North. Off at Shelby. 17 blocks down. 10 minutes, no traffic."
He had practiced Saturday and every night since then.
He parked at the lake. The rains had not come as promised to cool the stagnant air. So he plodded through the Stygian nights 17 blocks watching the city expand large before him. Diminishing him. A gunshot rang to is left. A domestic dispute that did not involve him. He wished it did.
He ascended the crest of the tumid river. Torpid, he studied the sluggish slough of despond below. A pilgrim himself. A propitiation. And he though of measured meals and self-injected insulin.
He'd run out of places where the skin's not pricked.
The General Jackson found him tangled under a riverfront dock. "No tourist saw, thank God. Might blemish the city. You can't shield everybody from everything."
As they pulled the body from beneath the dock, they noted, "he had his shoes and his socks on and his shirt tucked in."