Trouble in St. Cloud

he'd heard about it from the woman in black lace. she'd related it in slow whisper, clutching her campari, the story of the Subtle Man. he was here a few years back, before the poverty set in, molasses-thick. the children spotted him at the old docks, late one december night, the mist still heavy, fog-horns seeking fragile ears through the dark-wet black. he stood motionless and brooding, his long black coat making him out to be an amorphous threat, eyes set apart and white, brilliant. he'd been seen several times after that, in the old lamp district, at the edge of town, and at the docks again. for a month or two, who could remember in those days when the liquor flowed and the opium clouded rooms and minds, no one had seen him and assumed him dead or moved on to some other lonely town. then one night, during a waning moon, he was spotted again at the old docks. he was motionless, amorphous still, black coat tricky-billowy. it's funny what legends dead men spin. i left that sickly-still town that night, hitched a ride with the cattle-dealer on his way out.

"the way you drop is like a stone, making like you're flying, but you've just been thrown."

"it's a mad world.."

"she's gone with the man in the long black coat..."