Waiting Under a Streetlight

He stood waiting under a streetlight
For thirty six full hours before realizing
That he was not there by the river
In Chicago at all, but was in fact
Walking Khao San Road in Bangkok,
Looking for a place to spend the night.

Four minutes later he discovered that was
Wrong and that his feet were boarding a train
Out of Mumbai, but he couldn’t recall
Where he was headed for the longest time.
Two and a half hours of riding the rails
And he remembered that he was supposed
To be in Lagos, but that he was really stuck
In Jakarta for the rest of the week until he
Could get the plane tickets sorted out.

For the time being, he sat on a bench in
Washington Square Park, tossing crumbs
At the pigeons and dimes at the musicians,
Wondering how much it would cost to
Rent a car and visit the Sorbonne while
He was waiting to hear back from…who?

Then something truly odd happened when
He thought for a moment that he was in
Tenochtitlan, apprehensively observing the
Arrival of Cortés at the palace of Moctezuma.

But no, he was flying business class to London
From Boston, with two drinks in his bloodstream,
A pillow under his head and a blindfold over his
Weary eyes, keeping out the muted artificial light
And impeding his view of the stewardess’s very
Fine ass that would be plainly visible if he could
Just move. Why couldn’t he move? Probably it
Was because he was actually singing karaoke in
Tokyo with some call girl that Tom had ordered
For their big night out on the town before going
To Rio for the second leg of the trip where they’d
Meet up with…who was it this time they needed?

He was going home after that in any case and home
Is where the heart is, but isn’t your heart in your
Body, and so isn’t home wherever your chest is?
No, home was in Grand Rapids or Algiers, though
It was likely in Rome, or it could have been Naples.
But now Cape Town seems more familiar, certainly
A better candidate than Lille, but maybe not as sure
As Quito, or possibly Montreal, though the winters
Are out of place, so maybe it was really Riyadh?

He sighed and brought his bicycle to a halt outside
His apartment building in Shanghai and looked to
The upper floors where his temporary home nested.
How could he have forgotten that he was in Cairo?
Clearly because he was still waiting for this delivery
And the delay and anxiety was messing with his head.
The rivulets of rain spattered his shoes when he let
His eyes fall back down to the ground, and he cursed
The weather, as he only had one day in Sydney before
They headed inland to see the Himalayas or climb them?
In frustration he kicked the curb and went back to waiting
Under the streetlight, motionless on a corner in Chicago.

Smiley Sam

Smiley Sam picked a nickel from the ground today,
Pulled some change and a bill, an afternoon’s pay.
He stayed out of the rain and massaged his feet,
And attempted to keep his opinions of the passing elite
Quiet and to himself, but no such luck.

Smiley Sam snickered and sniggered slyly,
Praising the pompous pretty people a little too highly.
He washed his face in a fast food bathroom sink
And let the patrons complain quietly about his stink,
For he really didn’t give a flying fuck.

Smiley Sam went to sleep in front of an old store,
One that was closed down for several months or more.
He dreamed that he was plying the Colorado River,
Riding the rapids until it got so cold he awoke with a shiver,
To find that he was being robbed by Little Chuck.

Smiley Sam never did have much to his name,
And for that he never griped or tried to place blame,
But he’d be damned if some scrawny kid stepped on his toes
And stole his bag right out from under his crooked nose,
So he sat up and shouted, but got stuck.

Smiley Sam lay there for several hours,
As the rain tapered off to morning showers.
The cops finally came and covered him with a sheet,
Took him to the morgue and went back to their beat,
Smiley Sam already forgotten.

Lowlands

In the wooded lowlands of life,
Where the air hangs dank and dull
Over the moss that creeps inexorably up,
Intent on strangling the oak trees,
And the distant bells of salvation can only be faintly heard,
Chiming for others,
Reaching us intermittently through the stillness,
On the edge of hearing,
Teasing our consciousness with hope that is not ours,
There we can be found, through veils of mist and loss.

Fate leaves us stranded on that deserted stretch of land
With naught in our pockets but frozen matchbooks,
Souvenirs we took from hotels
Where we made love to our favorite lovers.
They snap in our numb fingers as we try to build a fire,
Reminding us relentlessly of our failures
And the impotence of nostalgia.
The only shelter to be found is under brambles and dead leaves;
We lie there through soft, quiet rains,
Dreaming of mud and sand.

Exiled, we tramp the day away,
Searching for flickers of meaning,
In a morass of logical nihilism,
Trying silently to maintain our composure,
As darkness descends and extinguishes,
Even the light we hold in our hand to guide us home.
Groping our way over barren moors,
We can’t help but remember that even
The home we seek is a fake, a poor copy
Not even resembling the original,
Which is lost forever in the
Furthest reaches of our memory.

Time is the sole rescuer in this timeless wilderness,
The only one who patrols the footpaths and sets the
Wanderers back on the road that leads to civilization.
And if we find his lodge by the smoke from its chimney,
And approach its warm door hoping to obtain early release,
We will see that even he is never at home,
That the smoke is from a fire long gone out;
We will see his meager possessions lying enmeshed in cobwebs,
The dust settled and undisturbed for an age or more.

Crown Thy Good

An oasis of yellow light
Adrift in an endless lead sky
Fading to restless night,
Not black in the city,
But dark enough to thoroughly
Smother the day and clouds.
This lone light in a lone building
Where a lone woman sweeps a screen
With tired squinting eyes,
Right hand jotting crooked notes
On a lined pad with scratching pencil.
This lone woman all alone,
Just like the other people
At their desks on her floor,
All around her, alone.
It is eight o’clock and another
Twelve-hour day is in progress
For nearly the entire department;
Few have gone home or are about to.
Salary employees, they get no extra pay
For extra hours worked and
The company works very carefully
To make sure they get no overtime.
The woman pushes her glasses higher
With her free hand and continues to
Push the pencil with her right.
Her associate finally quit and was not replaced,
So now she does the work for two
And gets paid for three-fourths of one.
That is called increased worker productivity.
She scribbles into the night,
Knowing that her husband will be asleep
By the time she gets home,
For the third time this week.

Hundreds of miles away
The last American factory
Still grinds gears and produces
Something you or I could hold.
The evening shift doesn’t get a break
Tonight, as another order has come in,
So the foreman said two hours ago.
Still, this man needs a cigarette and smokes
At the bathroom window,
Though it could cost him his job.
The company has already moved the plant
South to North Carolina to dissolve the union,
But the whispers are that they’re ready to
Keep going all the way down to Mexico
Where they can pay even less and the laws
Don’t have to be lobbied against
Because they don’t exist.
For now this smoking man has a job,
But for how long is anybody’s guess.
He doesn’t have health benefits
Or a wage that allows him to take
His daughters to the movie theater,
But apparently he is a weight on the
Company’s profits that must be shed.
That is called globalization.
It’s been four minutes,
So he flicks his butt
And goes back to work.
He has the right-to-work,
But not to a job,
Nor really to much else.

Back at the corporate headquarters,
Several stories above the still squinting woman,
Behind frosted glass on the top floor
Sits the CEO with a spreadsheet before him.
He has increased profits by slashing benefits,
Decreasing the head count and increasing
Demands on the workers’ time
Among the people literally and figuratively below him.
The union was tough and strong in the old plant,
Five miles away, so it was his idea to move south,
To put a thousand out of work and cut costs in half
With six hundred, “non-union non-complaining
Rednecks to do the job for now,” as he told the board.
Running the numbers, they tell him China instead
Of Mexico for the next trip.
“Chinks are cheaper than wetbacks,” he chuckles
To himself as his fingers pound the keyboard.
Profits are through the roof since he hired the right
Lobbyist to make sure they secured more cost-plus
Contracts from the government than ever before;
Profit built in, with more to be made by overcharging the
Taxpayers, the chumps that actually pay part of their income,
Unlike him or the company, who are above such silliness.
Profit dictates action and that is what he does.
Numbers are his world;
They justify the fact that he is paid
Four hundred and twelve times the smoking man
And two hundred and two times the squinting woman.
He makes the hard decisions.
And so his bank account ticks upward with every sigh
Of despair that escapes from the lips of his workers.
That is called laying the foundation for a growth economy.

Thousands of miles away
In a pre-dawn strike,
One of the company’s products
Streaks down from the cold navy sky,
A small moving part in a missile
That obliterates a sleeping house
For no discernable reason
(that is called bad intel)
In a lonely mountainous land.
The mother of four young children
Was already awake and tending to the goats
While they, her husband and his parents
Remained in bed for a little longer
Or rather, forever.
Her dusty screams pierce the still reverberating air
As she stumbles to her feet and lunges toward
The smoldering rubble of her life.
Ignoring the frightened, scattering animals
And the abrasions on her bruised body,
She throws herself down, digging with her bare hands.
The numbers man could tell you that he makes
Twenty four thousand times what this woman earns in a year,
But he could not tell you anything
About the anguish and terror
In her rasping voice
As she sobs, “Allah! Allah!”
For he can not hear her
From his seat at the summit
Of his concrete peak.

A poem for Monday, while it lasts (though I wrote it last Wednesday)

The future looms ahead through an icy windshield.
Wipers only scratch at the opacity with grinding whirs and clicks,
Reminding us of the utter futility of divination.
The heat sputters fitfully below the soporific breath of the engine,
Pines heavy with blindingly white snow fill the view on either side,
And we speed down the highway, completely unaware of what lies
Mere yards in front of our bumper;
A jackknifed tractor-trailer bringing certain death,
The exit we are hoping for,
Or just the open road.
Any option can only effect the then, never the now.

The cassette is rewinding so we can hear side A again,
The hum of the spinning tape blends with the general din,
Turning white noise gray.
Empty bottles and wrappers litter the floor,
French fries have fallen into the gap between the seats,
(we will smell them for the rest of the trip)
And the remnants of our sodas have gone flat.
No one even remembers how long ago the last rest stop was,
Or how many miles the last sign said there was to go.
You pull the steering wheel because you can no longer wait,
The need to stretch your legs is overwhelming,
But the car does not swerve and the future rushes at us,
The same as it ever did,
Its velocity pushing us back into the coarse cushions.