Goody Proctor dancing in the
woods with the devil, a tangle of sin behind smocks:
the black man is pointing to the sky or maybe just to his apartment. his hat is on at a tilt and he has an eye like those old pictures of blackbirds, eating berries from others� bushes and wearing their neckties of mating-red. his necktie is white. he is not a blackbird, he is simply a black. his boots have a derisive curl, but perhaps they are not so much haughty as afraid, afraid to touch the ground, afraid to come too close to the sewer where, after all, we promised we�d never go back. no we don�t live there no more. it�s a popcorn existence, the kind you dip your hand into and get smeared with salted butter but you still keep on eating because after all, at the movies they charge such and such so much so since you popped this at home it would be criminal to waste. we don�t believe in waste. we won�t go back to the sewer and gutters. we are middle class now. he wears blue pants and a suit jacket far too large for his lightning-rod frame, held up in the night ben-franklin style, hoping for a revelation in the clouds. there is none to be found. he continues to point, however, because appearences do so matter and we won�t go back. no we don�t live there no more.