Читать книгу Purity of Absence - Dave Margoshes - Страница 17

Little Caesar on TV

Mother of mercy

is this the end of Rico?

Or does the pulse of desire

that lifted him up keep racing

through rain-slick streets

like a speeding roadster,

the fates on its tail in hot pursuit.

Flaherty, you bastard,

how easy it is for you to sneer

at ambition extinguished,

you whose only hopes revolve

around slipping the cuffs

on wrists of men with clearer sight,

squeezing the juice from fingers

that have moulded life in all

its uncertainty and rigour,

that have taken chances.

He wound up in the gutter

that he came from, just as you told

the scribblers he would, just

the way your divine plan dictated

he should, but not because

of any blur in his vision,

any failing of his stout heart—

the way you would have had it—

but because of the fundamental

flaw in his logic: sure, be big,

the heavens are vast, stars beyond

counting and man is puny unless

he dares to stand on tiptoe

and push his hand beyond his reach.

Sure, Rico, be a big shot,

the way the egg stains on your plate predict, but don’t you dare spit on the dance, or step on the toes of the dancer.