Reading the El I do not think of Argentina.

Reading the El I do not think

of Argentina

but of midsummer

on the Thirdavenue El

and of myself back then

reading that copy I found

on the El.

The El with its flyhung fans

and ''papeles inesperados''

and its signs reading

SPITTING IS FORBIDDEN.

tHE el

careening thru its world

with its ''etc''

looking as if they had never heard

of THe Ground.

An old dame

or a joker in a straw

putting a stickpin in his

PEPPERMINT TIE

and looking just like

he had nowhere to go

but Coneyisland

rocking in his rocker

watching the El pass by

as if the expected it to be little different

each time.

But reading the El

I do not think of Argentina.

Its woods wich Borges

thought dead.

I think instead

K.M.