Treatment and Control
Roman S. Ponos
Over the last quarter century, the ink dried with drama and flying rumors
Impressions, once clear with instruments, stood dull with the times when I did not
have an answer.
Seduced by the tohubohu of mixed methods, through its weight and
silence, her fingertips searched for something more, some
faint evidence, a mere scribble, to determine the impact,
empowered by formulas and meetings I left uncomfortably.
They lost touch. With just enough rope to hammock the divide, goose the
sample, enrich the analysis and journey to the highest mountain in Spain
off the coast of Africa.
In Fann Hock, an angel’s trumpet drowned out midday prayers,
caught echoing weakly against empty boats randomizing the fishmongers at
the evening market.
The Corniche is uncharacteristically quiet with minimum detectable
effects; everyone is in St. Louis for
the jazz festival and data collection.
Young fitness enthusiasts and Francophone economists are perpetually caught
in life’s fishing net, where they discard the boubou
and wear the hook.