The stick
figure—coming to a halt in the Champ
de Mars—broods on some

dripping
   ice
castles, then cuts like a stadium

vendor through the bulk-
y, crowd-lined
   shadows

of the tower. But do crowds
cover shadows, he
   wonders, or

shadows cover crowds? He sees
   pals from
afar, the ones

   he admires so
much he makes house-
hold goods in their very

forms—these
   thingies are
peddled to silly

spare tourists the stick
   figure's
friends

   ignore. Every
day the gang eats
lunch with each

other's lovers and
   clerks  
and dogs. They lap it

   right up and rush
home to write so sternly
proudly to father and sister

and aunty about the fish
soup and motorcars, never
   quite for-

   getting the scratchy
blisters on their wait-
ress's arms. For such irksome

   times of re-
membrance, the stick figure
carries a device—one-third

   fungus, one-third steel,
one-third juice—which smoothes
the circle around his fea-

tureless face. Simplicity, he
maintains, must
   be enforced.

__

Not really ([?])