Classic Poem

How are you, my bashful Proclus,
Receive another letter deftly dashed off
But before I tell you how things go with me, answer:
What did you do in Athens on Sundays
To avoid suicide? ... Well, what you did or stopped doing
Makes no difference to me, brilliant Proclus.
For my part, without a smidgen of sarcasm, I can say
That today I jumped out of bed as smiling and optimistic
As the day's blue face over the countryside.
I'm enjoying the day to the fullest Now
You'll hear it. At ten this morning I lounged
In a cafe facing the street.
Sunlight, sunlight and churchbells.
And I say " The sun on Sundays
Appears to be dressed as loudly
As Sunday itself. "
And I add " Waiter, I'd like some toast
and a good reindeer steak.
And champagne. But wait, a priori to that,
A hemisphere of Citrus paradisi . "
" A what, sir? " mutters the waiter,
Eyes popping out with surprise
" No, nothing, nothing, " I answer,
" Half a grapefruit and an Alka Seltzer. "
Off the waiter goes, and I yawn, inspecting my nails.
All this done like a last resort.
Then, mindlessly, I scratch the back of my head
And give the world around me
A misanthropic leer
A surrealist painting is what I see,
Where what appears as parallelepipeds
On the horizon of rubblework
Are the houses in front of me
Over there, this sign in Gothic letters:
" Salustiano Garcia
I sell funeral wreaths
and custom-made coffins. "

Now, along the narrowness of the sidewalk
Parades a touch of bourgeois morality.
A pair of huddled newlyweds
Whispering morning sweetnesses.
(Drivel!)
An arm-in-arm couple,
She, haughty, as if announcing by her gait:
" Gentlemen, this important person you see here
Is my husband
Consider yourselves informed, I am his wife! "
He appearing to boast: " Gentlemen, this
Woman is mine, mine only.
That's what I pay for. "
(Ridiculous!)

So you see, dear Proclus, I'm enjoying myself
Extravagantly. Even without
One of Aristophanes' stuffed and mounted jokes.
Our punctual Lady Custom
Has a grand time boring us all
And I mix all this with my breakfast
And resignedly devour it,
With an urge to cry out, " Gentlemen,
Nothing, nothing, nothing happens here. "