I wonder about the light in my window
The cars at the stop light,
the pedestrians on the sidewalk
on the boulevard below.
Night comes early these days,
but I hate the blinds
on the window over the sink.
And I like the reflection
of the red, yellow and green
on the damp pavement
as I cut up a chicken
and argue with the kids.
When they look up here
and see me at my work
they probably wonder if my life
is as fucked up as theirs,
the same as I do, when I look
into their bright windows
from the dark of night.
slowing down the game
the young ones flip
and slash and move
the ball, a blur
ricochet sideboard,
backboard, behind
the goalie, across
the mouth of the goal,
off the post, a rocket
to midfield where
the old man waits
patiently, pass
to wing, center
a slow dribble
past a furious
diving goalie.
"Winners!" claims
a little spectator
barely tall enough
to see over
the edge of the table
wanting a piece
of that slow
slow ball.
welcome to the chicken factory
back from the service
and unemployed
in central Maine
where jobs are rarer
than hen's teeth
as they say
I counted myself lucky
to find something
at the Ralston Purina
chicken processing plant
for twenty cents
over the minimum wage
which most of the workers
were making there.
only the tuck unloaders
(which was me)
and the killers
(sharp knives, raincoats
and knee high boots
ankle deep in blood all day)
according to the union
had the skilled position
or the requisite suffering
to deserve more.
and we got overtime
lots of overtime
coupla hours a day
and if you kissed
the foreman's ass
you could work a half-day
on saturday
cleaning up around the place
for time-and-a-half.
one guy'd been there ten years
raising three kids
in an apartment
in a ramshackle wood frame
tenement in frenchtown
worked every weekend
paying off a color TV
from the local K-mart
couldn't understand why
after a ten hour friday
of ninety degrees plus
covered in chicken shit
and pin feathers
I asked the foreman
"Are you fucking kidding?"
when he offered me
saturday morning
for the first time
since I'd been there
as if I'd been a good worker
or sucked his cock.
"You crazy?"
the poor frenchie
wanted to know.
"You'll never get asked
again!" he shouted after me
as I took off
after a frier
that got loose
and jumped the fence
to the drive-in theater
next to the plant
just to bust my balls
at the end of the week.
life and death in Chinatown
The fish are slowly dying
in the big glass tank
at the Pearl River Seafood Restaurant.
The trick is to sell them
and cook them for the customers,
before they cross that fine line
between marketability
and the dumpster out back.
There are sea bass, grouper,
toad-fish and one long eel.
And there are Dungeness crabs,
still full of life,
as persistent as Sisyphus,
trying to climb the divider
between themselves and those
with the smell of death.
The bass kiss the glass
with angelic lips,
pleading with sad fish eyes.
They rise to the surface,
desperately gasping for air,
only to sink again
onto the back of the eel.
The grouper cruise slowly
like medallion cabs,
while the toad-fish
rest indifferently
on the bottom.
I look up from my menu,
wondering which one
I should rescue.
pigeons in the rain
It looks like rain
then it is.
The pigeons stop swooping
in the cavern between
my office and the probation
department across the street
to take shelter
on my window sill,
one male and two hens.
He starts pumping himself up,
his feathers swelling
at the throat and chest.
He chases one
then the other,
bull-humping each of them
whenever he gets close.
"All men are dogs,"
Amy often tells me.
"No dear,
they're just pigeons,"
is my reply.
carnival days
The kids must like the turmoil.
They keep coming back
every weekend,
despite the scoldings,
the angry exchanges
between me
and their mother,
the hurried packing,
and loud door slams
on the way out
to start the car
and haul them back
to Grandma in Queens.
She comes back too.
That same Sunday night,
she'll slide between my sheets,
serene;
the strife packed away
for another week
into toy boxes
in the other room.
Last night we took them
to a carnival
in the parking lot at Shea;
stayed until they shut down the scrambler,
turned off the colored lights.
and chased the crowd away.
"Can we come back, tomorrow?",
came a small voice
from the dark
in the back of the car
as we headed down the parkway
toward my place.
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