(With apologies to Wallace Stevens.)
Crespo Dollar and the Pople are hard at work.
Yet somehow, I envision even our accountant, contingincies of tax season weighing like the world, inspired to refill her Starbucks’, undewing buds suggestive like a second cup of coffee in the warm rain. Her undoing, perhaps? A moment, the office will wait.
Back sections beckon. Woody Allen’s lingerie ads long ago deposed in demotic condominiums, sexy, swanky kitchens met in stainless steel upon the grounds of our most cherished fantasies.
Instead, muttering, “that light, that light!” The too soft pitch at the San Siro and David Beckham real time on the back channels of basic cable. What an Italian would do with that body? David in pixels. Da Vincian David in underwear. Our David, bent not bowed, on his axis of fame, the cruciform shape of his testicles our cross to bear. Another cross to bear.
Charles Osgood mutters a last line of doggerel. We drift from our sinless beds to a last, lukewarm, bit of coffee, barefoot, half naked on the cold kitchen tile, contemplating nothing. And everything. Making hay of the multitasking. Getting it sorted. An hour for this. A place for that.
And with that we rise to our monitors. Books put aside. Dogs petted. Options weighed.
It’s another Sunday morning in America. And there’s work to do.