I live in Syracuse, New York now,
and I will read a poem called "The Tourist from Syracuse,"
which I hasten to say isn't personal.
I wrote it before I knew that I would be living in Syracuse,
I would defend myself.
It comes from-- it takes its starting point
from a sentence in a murder mystery
by John D. MacDonald called Murder for the Bride.
The sentence goes like this, "One of those men,
who can be a car salesman or a tourist
from Syracuse or a hired assassin."
And the person speaking the poem is that person,
and not necessarily me.
He says, you would not recognize me.
Mine is the face which blooms in the dank mirrors of washrooms
as you grope for the light switch.
My eyes have the expression of the cold eyes of statues
watching their pigeons return from the feed you
have scattered.
And I stand on my corner with the same marble patience.
If I move at all, it is at the same pace
precisely as the shade of the awning
under which I stand waiting.
And with whose blackness it seems I am already blended.
I speak seldom and always in a murmur as quiet
as that of crowds which surround the victims of accidents.
Shall I confess who I am?
My name is all names and none.
I am the used car salesman, the tourist from Syracuse,
the hired assassin waiting.
I will stand here forever, like one who has missed his bus.
Familiar, anonymous, on my usual corner,
the corner at which you turn to approach that place where now
you must not hope to arrive.