poetrywriter
02-06-2001, 06:11 PM
(picking up the torch while Immortal is away)
the mission
After everyone was seated we served each other.
I found an empty chair across from a man
with matted hair and an olive jacket.
Its large and stained, and its enough.
He pressed his spoon into a pile of carrots,
mashing them while he asked if I was
the fellow who rationed the soup.
A tan broth, with shards of beef and vegetables
that eluded the ladle.
The intolerable chill of winter had arrived.
Hs skin is worn, blotted leather.
Its a long wait for spring.
John pointed out the regulars.
Two siblings push toy cars
across a long wooden table.
They smiled while they did it.
The bread was cold and brittle.
No one else seemed to notice.
John stuffed a piece into his pocket
to feed the crows that gather nearby.
Only the crows.
The last job he had
was nightshift in a cavernous warehouse.
The sides of steep boxes
dented his cheekbone when he carried them.
He tasted the warm sun on his lips
walking to the bank.
That was a long time ago.
The crowd lined up to the steel counter,
to return the cups and plates. Sparse.
The hill to the parking lot was narrow and graded.
We left in spurts, like patrons of a singles bar.
The car waited under a flickering lamppost,
near the crows perched in the trees
who whispered over the static fluorescent hum-
that which eludes us,
is that which sustains us,
is that which defines us,
is that which destroys us.
2/2/01
the mission
After everyone was seated we served each other.
I found an empty chair across from a man
with matted hair and an olive jacket.
Its large and stained, and its enough.
He pressed his spoon into a pile of carrots,
mashing them while he asked if I was
the fellow who rationed the soup.
A tan broth, with shards of beef and vegetables
that eluded the ladle.
The intolerable chill of winter had arrived.
Hs skin is worn, blotted leather.
Its a long wait for spring.
John pointed out the regulars.
Two siblings push toy cars
across a long wooden table.
They smiled while they did it.
The bread was cold and brittle.
No one else seemed to notice.
John stuffed a piece into his pocket
to feed the crows that gather nearby.
Only the crows.
The last job he had
was nightshift in a cavernous warehouse.
The sides of steep boxes
dented his cheekbone when he carried them.
He tasted the warm sun on his lips
walking to the bank.
That was a long time ago.
The crowd lined up to the steel counter,
to return the cups and plates. Sparse.
The hill to the parking lot was narrow and graded.
We left in spurts, like patrons of a singles bar.
The car waited under a flickering lamppost,
near the crows perched in the trees
who whispered over the static fluorescent hum-
that which eludes us,
is that which sustains us,
is that which defines us,
is that which destroys us.
2/2/01