WEBVTT

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I live in Syracuse,
New York now,

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and I will read a poem called
"The Tourist from Syracuse,"

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which I hasten to
say isn't personal.

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I wrote it before I knew that
I would be living in Syracuse,

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I would defend myself.

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It comes from-- it
takes its starting point

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from a sentence in
a murder mystery

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by John D. MacDonald called
Murder for the Bride.

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The sentence goes like
this, "One of those men,

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who can be a car
salesman or a tourist

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from Syracuse or
a hired assassin."

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And the person speaking
the poem is that person,

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and not necessarily me.

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He says, you would
not recognize me.

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Mine is the face which blooms
in the dank mirrors of washrooms

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as you grope for
the light switch.

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My eyes have the expression
of the cold eyes of statues

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watching their pigeons
return from the feed you

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have scattered.

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And I stand on my corner with
the same marble patience.

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If I move at all, it
is at the same pace

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precisely as the
shade of the awning

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under which I stand waiting.

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And with whose blackness it
seems I am already blended.

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I speak seldom and always
in a murmur as quiet

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as that of crowds which surround
the victims of accidents.

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Shall I confess who I am?

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My name is all names and none.

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I am the used car salesman,
the tourist from Syracuse,

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the hired assassin waiting.

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I will stand here forever, like
one who has missed his bus.

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Familiar, anonymous,
on my usual corner,

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the corner at which you turn to
approach that place where now

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you must not hope to arrive.

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