Chapter 3--The Frond Chewer

the large old theatre, its ornamentation inside in great need of retouch work;
and its stage empty except for a derelict piano with all but one key missing.
a nestful of hen eggs in the hollow of the wall.

outside, on Broadbridge Street, an idling limousine with mechanical chauffeur.
on a nearby lamppost, above the 'nothing' news notice with the nice picture of
someone's aunt, a red paper lantern writes curlicues in the polluted breeze.
the original purpose of any celebration a lost mystery.

although, unrelatedly, that someone's aunt could be all-too-vividly recalled,
by all those still living in the area, nibbling at the potted foliage near the
men's lavatory, and always quite ill-timed.

she also used to leave her green leather gloves in the restaurant owner's office.
no, nothing to do with the overly arcane Guild Society.


yellow afternoon light broke through the sickly colorless clouds.

the horse with the glass eyes was coming around into the Avenue again, pulling
its tattered carriage full of dirt covered vegetables. it moved all, at odd angles,
uncannily avoiding a crushed trash can lid, and , as often so, the street car's
rusted rail ruts.

it was a wonder no one had bothered to unhitch the creature.


past four, a salty mist from the ocean, well-in-sight, blew aside all rotten airs.