POEMS
James Cummins
THE CASE OF THE CINCINNATI SYNDROME
Paul Drake never told Mason he was from Cincinnati .
If
it came up, he'd mumble, vaguely, about the east.
Now, as he stood under a streetlight glowing blue
In
the night, watching the undersides of the leaves
As they tossed, silver, in the darkness, he felt
The man he was after on this case was himself ...
The jolt was so strong he dropped ashes on himself.
He brushed frantically at the flame. "Cincinnati-! "
He swore violently, regarding the hole in his felt
Elbow patch. A signpost shone like a tooth: "E.
McM illan" -he needed "W." As he flipped the leaves
Of his notebook, dreaming, they blended like the blue
Notes of a saxophone phrasing a passage that blew
Down the lonely streets of his past. He punched himself
In
the face: his brain cells were falling like leaves
Under the spell of that old siren , Cincinnati ...
He thought of Mason's banter, before he'd come east:
"Don ' t bring me a painting of a bull on black felt! " -
Then, seeing Paul's face, he'd asked how he felt.
"With my hands!" But the grin was gone, into the blue,
Rising in the west as the sun rises in the east,
Heading straight for a mid-air collision with himself
In
the musical smog of the mind over Cincinnati ...
Flying, the years fell away from him like leaves.
