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they played tennis in London. Now they sit on the Bughouse court, Pound in a
deckchair, khaki shorts frayed at the hems, Eliot, on a bench, tall and prim-looking in a dark suit, his feet perfectly
parallel. Sport is behind them now—the dream of hard-fought unity, the clean lines of
image. They reminisce and laugh about the past. “To think you thought that warmonger Rupert Brook the best of the Georgians!” says Pound, and Possum crinkles with laughter. Fragments and
echoes come and go between them. See, they
return to the games of their youth. To the west, the Anacostia River wrinkles and slides. Soon they will stand. Two old friends, the famous and the infamous, will shake hands, and one will take his leave. But for now they laugh awhile longer, hidden from eyes where only we can see them, screened by a row of trees.
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