I was a bum but once managed to go to a symphony concert along with the well-dressed people. They had two sunlamps on and the curtains rolled back. But the pit was set too deep to see and I could hardly hear. Only the gaudy with telescopic devices could make out what was actually happening. I was in a shirt and tie and my legs were far apart and my pants were baggy. The way things moved, ridiculous and beyond. I grabbed a monocular ambivalently off a blue-blooded Gaul in the row below me. I pressed the gadget to my eye, vaguely glimpsing a tuba, or baritone, then nothing. By then he had me by the throat, trying to pry his prized possession off me. I let go and coughed provokingly, then went home. Calamity was waiting for me on the stoop. Her little arms were full of guns. Her teeth, a teak woodcarving’s and her yarny hair rested across forehead. Something was burning somewhere inside. I could feel it. Fire. It was long out of season, but there it was, going.
Adam Moorad is a salesman and mountaineer. He is the author of four chapbooks and a novella. He lives in Brooklyn.