2037

THE BUTTON PUSHERS

I watched them start down the hill toward the daybed.

It was a green night, and I was fond of statistics.

There were clumps of yellow and blue grass growing in the mud.

They had just differed with me over the influence of Dostoevsky.

Childless, cruel, or strong, they're unfazed by allegorical kid death.

For me that kind of literature is a psychology experiment.

If I insult you, and you're offended, then ha-ha!

The magnificent lark of a shithead, etc.

We agreed that in Karamazov he transcends button-pushing.

But, they added, button-pushing beats window-dressing.

I listened for the suck of their shoes in the mud.