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A DREAM OF DIVISION ‘Tis the eve of the deadline, and all through the house not a creature is idle, not even a mouse. The divers still sorting, the artists still drawing, the turkeys still gobbling, the donkeys bee-hawing, the computer’s just blown its 217th fuse so we’ve set up the one we thought best not to use since ate forty files, and we’ve taught the batones to count up the fragments and gilded batones. |
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| The vault has slammed shut with a clank and a creak in hopes the investors will wait till next week before setting their lawyers, their dogs and their curses on whoever they think isn’t filling their purses with artifacts, emeralds, and pieces of eight, each wrapped in an authentic certificate. Wild fantasies run through the heads of curators who dream of the day their inelegant ‘taters will be flavored with meat, and they’ll flee from their station to indulge in a forty-five minute vacation. | |
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Our noggins are nodding, our elbows locked straight, we’re discouraged, defeated, resigned to our fate, when in the exhibit we hear such a clatter we race down the stairs to see what is the matter. The mess in the lab is enough of a pickle. Has the Gift Shop shortchanged some tourist a nickel? Have those welcoming signs carried welcome too far? Has someone at last really “lifted” that bar? But no, it’s a tragedy direr than that; all our labors in vain, all our hopes (fallen flat. My partner, who’s first, stops me short with a nudge as he sobbingly mutters. “Here come de judge” |
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