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A Spring Piece Left In The Middle

by
 Taut, thick fingers punch
the teeth of my typewriter.
Three words are down on paper in capitals: SPRING SPRING SPRING.
.
.
And me -- poet, proofreader, the man who's forced to read two thousand bad lines every day for two liras-- why, since spring has come, am I still sitting here like a ragged black chair? My head puts on its cap by itself, I fly out of the printer's, I'm on the street.
The lead dirt of the composing room on my face, seventy-five cents in my pocket.
SPRING IN THE AIR.
.
.
In the barbershops they're powdering the sallow cheeks of the pariah of Publishers Row.
And in the store windows three-color bookcovers flash like sunstruck mirrors.
But me, I don't have even a book of ABC's that lives on this street and carries my name on its door! But what the hell.
.
.
I don't look back, the lead dirt of the composing room on my face, seventy-five cents in my pocket, SPRING IN THE AIR.
.
.
* The piece got left in the middle.
It rained and swamped the lines.
But oh! what I would have written.
.
.
The starving writer sitting on his three-thousand-page three-volume manuscript wouldn't stare at the window of the kebab joint but with his shining eyes would take the Armenian bookseller's dark plump daughter by storm.
.
.
The sea would start smelling sweet.
Spring would rear up like a sweating red mare and, leaping onto its bare back, I'd ride it into the water.
Then my typewriter would follow me every step of the way.
I'd say: "Oh, don't do it! Leave me alone for an hour.
.
.
" then my head-my hair failing out-- would shout into the distance: "I AM IN LOVE.
.
.
" * I'm twenty-seven, she's seventeen.
"Blind Cupid, lame Cupid, both blind and lame Cupid said, Love this girl," I was going to write; I couldn't say it but still can! But if it rained, if the lines I wrote got swamped, if I have twenty-five cents left in my pocket, what the hell.
.
.
Hey, spring is here spring is here spring spring is here! My blood is budding inside me! 20 and 21 April 1929

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