IV. The Witch

From her Cordoba she smugly tosses the daily
classifieds into the arms of beautiful Mexican
infants who wait tragically around splendorous
fire hydrants. "This is my world!" she screamed
silently to herself, as she flicked a fiery
tarantula from her nose.

It was not uncommon to find her changing
the neighbors' tires before a photographer
while insisting that people no longer gave the
act its full value of tradition.
"Oxygen is a quite a sad entity," she mimed,
mispronouncing all the short vowel sounds.
Last Saturday she wished her way all the
way from a bunker, but still to no avail.

"She's quite a gal," answered the Fire
Chief to the Police Sergeant when asked
the whereabouts of a Hispanic lawyer, last
seen shining shoes on the Central Side.

The only thing supernatural about this
witch is her unmentionable fondness for
Italian tobacco.

"I eat it, then smoke it, then buy it,"
she once cackled over the phone to an
advice columnist, just before the hurricanes
that year. In a train-brain tunnel,
a jack was spotted doing her dirtier
working justices a small, favorable foreground.

She controls the sunset by walkie-talkie --
evicting yellow thingies like skeleton keys
into the panorama. Her silhouette can
always be found in the travel-guide indexes,
right there beside the pacemaker ads.
Ring, doggie.

March, 1989

©Evan Hause

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