A shadow on the side
just out of sight, do not
ignore it. Do not look past
the crouched figure, do not
ignore the voices that stream
past, refusing to do nothing
but listen to the thump
of the larger culture. Notice
those huddled beneath the
machine and pause to listen.
Just to listen. Now and then.
More at http://dogiswearingpants.blogspot.com.
Let me not wear
the brass mask of oppression
or raise the rod of correction
to the weak and sincere.
Let me not dress
in cotton to cover a
course inner fabric.
Let me use words as
a freedom and not as
an expression of distance,
creating chasms
out of sentences and chaos
out of semantics.
Let’s check the terminal and see
what jobs might be available
to match your skill set,
the interviewer said.
The young man
sitting next to the desk
was wearing a plaid shirt
and his first tie.
I know you’ll take any job
but let’s see what we can find.
A young man like you, Deon,
just starting out, has his
entire life ahead of him.
Here’s the personal stuff
you gave me so let’s go over it
and you tell me if I have
everything right.
Your father left your mother
when you were two and then
your mother died when
you were four and your granny
took you and your brothers in.
But she died in an auto accident
when you were ten.
An uncle took you after that
and he had trouble finding work.
Food was scarce and you
kept moving place to place.
He tried hard, you said.
An aunt in another city
took your little sister and
she sounds fine on the phone
when you get a chance to talk.
Your brothers went to foster homes
and you see them now and then.
Things aren’t going too well for them.
You graduated from grammar school,
then dropped out of high school
and went back to get your GED.
You’re 18 now and have never
worked anywhere before.
You have no car, no driver’s license,
and no record with the police.
You live deep in the city but
are willing to work in the suburbs.
Transportation’s not a problem
because your church has
bus passes for anyone who
needs them to get to work.
Let’s hope that’s you, Deon.
Bus passes are important because
most jobs you qualify for are
out in the suburbs, a long trip,
but our city buses do go there.
From your address I’d say
it will take an hour or more
each way, maybe a little longer
in winter weather with
the snow plows and all.
Now here’s a restaurant chain
with seven outlets in the suburbs
looking for young workers
with a GED and no experience
to wash dishes and bus tables.
It’s minimum wage but no benefits
and you’d start on the third shift,
apply for the second shift when
an opening occurs, and then apply
for the first shift after you’ve
been there at least a year.
Then you’d wait for an opening
on the salad bar and after a year
with the veggies you’d want to
look for an opening on the grill
but that’s third shift again.
I’d be happy to set up an interview
but that’s all I have at the moment.
You want me to call now, Deon?
Or do you want to sleep on it.
This is America. It’s your choice.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
They were refugees, too,
back in the Forties,
settled in Chicago,
learned English,
some a lot, some a little,
found jobs of some kind,
made do like their neighbors
until things got better.
And by the Seventies,
on hot summer nights
they were loud and happy
gathering on Morse Avenue
around parking meters
in the dying sunlight
outside one of the delis
lining the street
to argue about the Cubs
or politics or anything
they could disagree upon.
If someone made a point
someone else made
a counterpoint.
Arguments squared off
with cab driver against lawyer,
handyman against accountant,
all of them equal as a people.
They were survivors of the holocaust,
some with forearm tattoos
shouting under short sleeve shirts,
others with tattoos silent under
long sleeves worn to the office
that day with a tie.
Chicago had welcomed them
thirty years earlier and now
they were giving back, working
and sending their children
to college after making a life
and a neighborhood their own.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
No question the refugees in Europe
have it bad as do the garment workers
in Bangladesh as do the migrants
herded to America for a fee
and dumped at night to find their way
through brush beneath the lights
the border patrol has whirling.
Millie and Tillie are ancient sisters
who live in Iowa and worry about
those less fortunate on the news
every night before they turn in.
The sisters never married, live on
what they call fixed income in a
farm house Mom and Pop left them.
They worked in town for years
at dime stores, have no pensions,
live on a little social security,
expect no COLA raise next year.
They use cash or money orders
to pay small bills, have no credit
because they never needed it
and keep their savings in a sock
to buy necessities when things get
tough at the end of the month.
But they get by with a garden
and can their pole beans and tomatoes
and get their Pepsodent and Charmin
from the pantry at church.
They were doing okay until last week
when the old water heater quit
and they had to call a plumber.
First time for everything, Millie said,
and now the sisters don’t know where
they’ll get two grand to have
the plumber take the old heater away
and special order one that will fit.
He’s new in town and always in a hurry.
But Tillie says they have two kettles
in the basement and the stove works
so she’s certain they’ll get by.
After all, Mom and Pop always did even
when a hurricane snatched the harvest.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
No season of the year is best
for being homeless though
autumn warns the worst is near
and those who sleep in doorways
want to learn their options as to where
it might be best to spend the winter while
those who spend summer in the garden
sneak under doors and over transoms.
Folks step on bugs indoors and bring
their winter needs for shelter to an end.
This time of year before the holidays,
folks with roofs are toasty while
homeless bugs and people aren’t
although it’s true that fewer bugs
have to live outside all winter.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
When we were kids
growing up in the city
we had prairies
and a little hill
and we’d put Stevie
in a barrel and push him
down the hill.
He’d laugh and scream
all the way down.
He loved the whole trip
and wanted to do it again.
As little boys we were
happy to oblige him.
Everyone grew up
and went to college,
moved to the suburbs,
got married and had kids
except Stevie who stutters
except when he sings.
Every midnight he gets
on the subway
with his empty thermos
and barrels back home.
On Sundays they say
he sounds like Pavarotti
in the church choir.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.