AMATORY CONFUSION

AMATORY CONFUSION

Small-town America---where the East Coast

Of New England demurely halts the tossed

Atlantic's wayward swell, its wildness lost. . .

A sleepy, genteel town, and through it run

such pretty streets so pleasing in the sun,

and wooden houses painted blue built on

either side--- not too-closely spaced--- and each

with scissored lawn and prim white fence. And such

nice folks stroll down the sidewalks, all quite rich,

though modest too--- and look!--- what honeys their

cute children are, so clean--- and howdy fair-

faced college boy with happy grin! --- we are

so thrilled you won a place at Yale; your Mom

is mighty proud right now... now... now--- so calm

is the contrast of entering a home

where lives a thirtysomething lady sat

upon a plush-upholstered couch, a lot

of letters in her hand, just come by post.

She riffles through them absently, then throws

them all beside her in a heap, and sighs

with tiredness, and tempted thus to doze---

but perking up, returns now to her mail.

Some envelopes have slipped between the pale-

embroidered cushions, and so she must pull

them up--- she did--- but felt her fingers meet

some other paper there, a single sheet:

when freed, revealed a letter, written neat.

Now Carol read it. The writer's name? None.

No date. Who for? No clue. Just from someone

to someone: a page of endearments done

in lyric prose: a catalogue of praise

and hot-breathed longings... sitting in a daze

she wondered, was it meant for her? A haze

of speculation covered her. If some

man who had visited had left it there--- whom?

Not young, silly Johnny--- it didn't seem

his style; this writing was mature. With still

the matter unexplained, and Carol all

perplexed, she left the house and went to call

into the bookshop which she owned, and read

the letter over, learning what it said

by heart, then dropped it on a desk inside. . .

. . . and musing much, began her daily work.

And there things lay, till later in the week,

Amanda, her assistant, came to ask

advice of Carol, telling her how she

had found a letter in the shop: could he,

(a local fireman, whom she knew to be

all sweet on her) have left it on purpose

for her to find? But Carol quickly chose

to disappoint--- the letter wasn't hers.

And thus began the winding of a skein

which would entangle folk in that small town,

for many thought the letter was their own.

Meanwhile, what of the letter? Amanda

had returned it to the desk; and on a

later day its contents smote the centre

of a young man's heart--- silly Johnny found

it, thinking Carol loved him, (oh the wound

of Cupid's shaft!) and instantly called round

to see her at her house. Their meeting left

him heavy as a sunken ship, bereft

of hope, libido cancelled, ego cleft

and pounded into dust--- the letter not

for him! In fact, the letter languished yet

where found, for silly Johnny had forgot

to keep it after reading... there it lay,

a single sheet of mischief: lifted by

a sudden wafted breeze, it fluttered free,

out through an open window, blown along

the sidewalk with a merry-coloured throng

of autumn leaves, till, lodging in a prong

of some clipped hawthorn outside George's house. . .

. . .shy George, so sweet on Carol, who for years

had meant to ask her out--- so when he finds

the letter. . .well. . . the skein is tightened: now

the town is tangled in its threads, and how

those folks are fooled---at present, just a few;

but more would be confounded yet. I'm glad

for shy George though, who in a brave and mad

abandon told Carol her presence made

his pulse beat fast--- and found hers did for him!

The letter though did not refer to them. . .

. . . its mystery remained unsolved; and from

that day bewilderment descended on

those small-town folks, (save an older woman,

Miss Scattergood, a wistful, intense, chain-

smoking creature, acute in mind, vivid

in speech, who rode a bicycle), amused

by seeing such confusion being spread.

Now, continual misconceptions filled

the air. . .and many folk experienced

wild fantasies of love, which after fuelled:

intriguing speculations, comforting illusions,

awkward invitations, sweet reflections,

ludicrous misprisions, soulful swoonings,

understandable delusions, a crop

of ripened adorations, hard to stop

enthusiastic affirmations, hope

of delicate confessions, with many

offering opinions, others simply

making suppositions, or just merely

entertaining expectations, feeding

regrettable conclusions, or breeding

fascinations; conversations leading

to personal collisions, attempted

collusions, loving declarations, sad

convolutions of mistaken thoughts---head

mixed up with heart. And all of it futile:

for not many days afterwards, Carol

received another letter in the mail:

from her mother, telling of a visit

soon. And not a visit merely--- in fact,

a homecoming: her mother was intent

on living back in town, and all because

of deep love expressed to her in letters

lately sent. Carol could but sit and muse. . .

Thus quickly was the letter-puzzle solved:

her mother told a story which amazed

dear Carol greatly. How that she had loved

Miss Scattergood for years---and yes---that lost

letter found in the couch had come by post:

Miss Scattergood declaring love in most

elegant prose, its condensed emotion

rich and peculiarly feminine---

sweet woman-essence meant for a woman. . .

Stanley

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