Durante

At the end of the evening when the toothpick children had stored their horrors and wantonness under the bed from where it would ooze like oil from a fist for the rest of their lives, Jimmy Durante turned, balanced an over-the-shoulder look, then, as if to keep his balance, lifted his hat into the waning lights--felt into nothingness--then both strolled and lingered, singing companionably.  For reasons never explained, the spotlights were only on the floor where their compressed energies gave foothold.  His feet stepped into and out of them without his body casting shadow on the next; connecting everything behind him in the steadily diminishing stage. Miraculously, he kept his shape.

Stains and wafers, in and out, staying and leaving, damage and the Immaculata; all before the twin theories of wavering and bleeding.  So many circus deaths!  Failed operas!  Vanishing burlesques!  So much before Jimmy and his shoes of partial eclipse.

Between houses, passed by cars, a cat perches comfortably, haunches round with furry sleep; this part black, this part white; grey at the curbside, working its way up the drive.