Rich Malsam cruises Collyer in his two-tone Skylark twice a day, all eight blocks and weedy park. I ready my wave. He don’t turn his head Though day before yesterday he did.
I chew on the cud of this bewilderment, What hypotenuse of pleasure Does his cruise extend? What foyer in the palace of enchantment? Is dumb contentment a good measure?
A thousand bucks and two old rifles bought the Yanda house. Our town manages not to be a ghost town. Someone will live in that house.
I’ll wave so as not to spurn Poor Rich, though he don’t turn.