Fundamentally All Things Are Inexplicable

Arthur is washing dishes.

It is not what he likes to do best, but he has no money.

Nothing but an empty snake box.

(What if I give you this snake box? he had asked the waiter. But the waiter had no use for a snake box.)

So Arthur is washing the dishes and the waiter is watching.

I could write you a poem, says Arthur.

How long would it be? says the waiter.

As long as you like, replies Arthur.

Not too long, says the waiter. Because you still have to finish the dishes.

I meant instead of the dishes, says Arthur. I could write it on the chalk board.

Are you a poet? asks the waiter.

Yes, says Arthur. Give me some chalk and something to stand on.

Stand on the snake box, says the waiter.

It's my snake box, says Arthur.

So? says the waiter.

I am in your employ, says Arthur. And you are making me use my own snake box. That means less dishes.

Arthur places the snake box in front of the chalk board. Then he stands on the snake box and writes:

SCUM.
Duck fat on the plate and the palate
delicate bracelets of scum
after I washed up here.
Arthur Rimbaud.

Did he write that? says the waiter.

He did now, says Arthur.

The waiter looks Arthur up and down, as he stands on the snake box.

Nice shorts, says the waiter. Paisley Skull.

And yet, they are to blame for my troubles, says Arthur.

Tell me how that can be, says the waiter.

(Business is quiet this evening).

These shorts, says Arthur, have empty pockets. My old ones contained useful things.

Money? says the waiter. A phone?

Bandages, says Arthur. Bamboo sticks.

Here, says the waiter, handing Arthur a dish cloth. Use that if you need a bandage. You can go now. But give me back the chalk.