Bernard said to the lamppost as it was half-past the witching hour: What year were you born in? 1802, I’d say, if I knew much about the oil-guzzling fiends that in those days weren’t tankers on cement with heated leather seats, but rather, your basic park bench lamps. There were picnics next to them, or should have been, if scandals and children’s fantasy novels weren’t wrapped around the iron colonnades. Just imagine! Peter Pan falling in love with a too-young daughter of aristocrats and fawns coming by to slap them up with tea and biscuits, playing a while on a lute, and all the while I’m running by in nothing but shorts and a dozen sweaters to defeat the cold. I’d stop to tie my shoes, but I’m convinced they’re frozen to my calf, crawling as they were, from the tongue of my shoe to my hairless German legs. This, and of course, the biscuits were meant for young boys dangling at lampposts who implicitly are third-generation ex-patriots from the land of Spare Oom. Always winter, and never Christmas. Perhaps the biscuits tried to, as lute playing is not a well-known tradition on Noel’s day. And whatever the occasion, I doubt highly that this lamppost is run by oil, whose author is a lamplighter, who can do nothing more but scrounge for scraps of un-holidayed winter biscuits after love affairs beside the iron trees of the parkside.
And ’round about, I take my whirling dervish of a final turn, and plod back into civilization, lit about the throat with Edisonile incandescence.