Versus humidity that walked across your face on housefly legs.
I loved both the most.
Radio made women dream
Of freedom from oppression and the daily nonsense.
Hairy tarantulas in boatloads of bananas made the lazy heat immense
In the heart. Blizzards didn’t stop my father’s big blue coal trucks so
why bother.
Why bother, father?
Billie Holiday was inside.
I thought I had gone to heaven and died.
MOUNT STREET GARDENS
By Frederick Seidel
I’m talking about Mount Street.
Jackhammers give it the staggers.
They’re tearing up dear Mount Street.
It’s got a torn-up face like Mick Jagger’s.
I mean, this is Mount Street!
Scott’s restaurant, the choicest oysters, brilliant fish;
Purdey, the great shotgun maker—the street is complete
Posh plush and (except for Marc Jacobs) so English.
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Le portrait magazine