Last night, I had a night-hallucination about a doco by Caro, in which a most scandalous rumour about RM was told: that NYC's mighty Coordinator of highways would go to his workroom on Randall Island, and, all solitary, sit on a child's toy construction wagon with a big scoop at its front, happily making "toot toot" and "brm brm" sounds.
Roundup of auto-romans, including my compliant Dumas, “Athos & Porthos & Aramis & D’AtGuy” (non-compliant blog post)
That birthday playlist I was talking about - it's about four hours long
BIG BLACK CAT, IN ZOO
His sight, from scanning that gray row of bars,
has grown too lax to hold to anything.
For him his world contains a thousand bars
and no world past that iron ring.
His softly pacing gracious walk
that turns along tight spirals with no sound
is vigor, dancing round a focal point
in which a mighty will stands numb.
Sporadically, his pupil's curtain lifts,
admits a solitary lit-up spark.
It runs through hush'd, taut limbs, and drifts
into his bosom, sinks without a mark.