GILBERT SORRENTINO
543
svelte husbands. Yet who can see the anguish beneath? Most of them
would probably rather be eating a wiener or whatever they call
it ... Tom! Tom, always, always in the very center, the smile he bent
on the Governor's wife as he listened to her speak of her work with
Albanian superintendents in the area of Tompkins Square Park, 16
blessed acres in the teeming streets. She had brought over thousands of
them, freed them from Communist oppression. Their musty babush–
kas and dusty berets gave the little park but yet another touch of color.
They were hope-stuffed days ifyou follow my suggestion. But then ...
Later, under the blind stars, we found ourselves in some park,
which park I don't know, that is oft the beauty of a crowded city! Out
of the wonted bustle of the streets we strolled hand in hand, Daisy's
face oddly peaceful in the glow from the sodium vapor lights that
tustled above. Our park! Somehow I seemed to say this, if aloud, I
don't know, but she looked at me with such a glance of fear-fear, and
at the same time, yearning. The dead grass, the broken benches, the
sea of glass shards that reflected the moonlight like a million rare
jewels-all joined in to make this a night to remember and to mutter
strange things meant only for the ears of somebody who normally
might seem startled at such spoken oddities. Such was Daisy, I dared
hope? Who can know the heart of a woman? Wasn't it Emerson at
Walden Lake who uttered, "A good woman is asmoke"? Though we
have been forced to believe that they are strong, self-reliant, stern and
singleminded, yet we do not greatly err if we consider them as cup–
cakes-luscious arrangements of tender flesh that live and breathe
perfect affirmation. Of course, some of them are ugly but God loves
them. Though they rightly demand equal pay for equal work, who can
know the true desires of a dame? So these questions raced through my
splintered feelings and I shot a glance into her shining eyes, eyes whose
glow rivaled that of the diamond-showered park through which we
aimlessly walked. "Aimlessly I wander through the park, my heart a
toad." The line came to me suddenly.
It
was the power of poetry that
had struck at me, blindly, as it often does in an atmosphere redolent of
Venus. Her shining eyes! And then my throat closed up, I hoped not
permanently, as I felt her odd little hand seek out mine in the healing
dark. Somewhere, far off, an Albanian shrieked ...
. . . I see-don't deny it, dear, dear Martin-I see that you are
glancing at my oddly shaped little hand. Allow a sigh as I am brought
