Those Who Sit

And the Seated Ones, knees drawn up to their teeth, green pianists
Whose ten fingers keep drumming under their seats,
Listen to the tapping of each other’s melancholy barcarolles,
And their heads nod back and forth as in the act of love.
– Oh don’t make them get up! It’s a catastrophe …
They rear up like growling tom-cats when struck,
Slowly spreading their shoulders… What rage!
And you listen to them as they bump their bald heads
Against the dark walls, stamping and stamping with their crooked feet,
And their coat-buttons are the eyes of wild beasts
Which fix yours from the end of the corridors!


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