Spuyten Duyvil

Ernest Lawson, Shadows, Spuyten Duyvil Hill (ca. 1910)

 “I ask you, what's the point of stealing something if no one knows it's stolen save the stealer?—John Banville, The Blue Guitar

When I first came to America, in 1972,

I walked out one morning in Riverdale,

New York, on garbage pickup day

And marveled at the things Americans threw away.

I've been here over half a century, and still do.

They toss out their own history, dismayed by its suspect smell

(but Ambrose Bierce could have told you that as well).

Incredibly, many now seem to be discarding jazz,

Louis Armstrong is, for lots of them, a been that has,

Ditching their native music and its holy arts,

Replacing truth with meretricious farts.

In Riverdale, that April morning, I retrieved a black sweater

And wore it till it wore out—when I found a better.

One man’s trash is another’s treasure—

Objets trouvés have always been a pleasure.

I do, of course, exaggerate.

And you’ve a pile of nothing on your Amazonian plate.

Wednesday, October 8, 2025