As I do every once in a long while,

Having forgotten, I pull from the shelf

The Collected Works of Mister Thomas

Stearns Eliot, beginning at page one,

Beginning at the beginning, page one,

The Love Song of J. Alfred Pru . . .

. . . frock, reading with admiration, or should

I say appreciation, of foggy

Nights and yellow smoke, mismatched souls,

Stifling drawing parlors, arid passions,

Complicated rhyme schemes, voyeur’s peepings,

Nocturnal scurryings—the pages seem 

To turn themselves, until "Gerontion,” then:

"And the jew squats on the window sill, the owner,

Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp."

Can I forgive him this descriptive line?

I must, yet, why is my chair now too hard,

The air too chill; why, too, cannot I ease

Back into his lines, his intent, his id?

I have felt the chill, "zero at the bone,"

I have been here before, it always cuts.

Never let down my guard; but I am lulled,

Drifting among the words—the sun is warm;

I read on, hoping against long odds, then:

"The rats are underneath the piles.

The jew is underneath the lot.

Money in furs."

I sigh and close the book. Too far away,

Too long ago, a product of his time.

I close my eyes, turn my face to the sun,

Absorb its warmth, its beneficence, on this

Surprisingly warm January day,

This gift of a day, letting go of the

Toxic words and imagery; forgive the

Sinner, not the sin, or vice-versa. 

It occurs to me that you do not need

This pall I have cast, that my discomfort

May have caused your own. In compensation

I offer to undo, annul, dispel

This cloud which I have brought into the room, 

So tender, in fair trade, comic relief,

A bit of grammatical levity:

A country boy, a ruralist, is admitted to a prestigious University. Arriving at the campus, entering the ivy-leaved gate, he admires the age and gravitas of the buildings, the stately grounds, the students striding purposefully.

A bit overwhelmed, a bit dazed, a bit lost, he asks a passing upperclassman, "Please, may I ask, where is the library at?"

With no small degree of derision the upperclassman answers, "don't you know not to end a sentence with a preposition?"

Our hero, well-mocked, chastened, replies, "please, may I ask, where is the library at, asshole?"

 `

"Zero at the bone," Emily Dickinson.

The joke is old and worn, perhaps. My father-in-law told it to me. The only time I heard him cuss.