Priority Seating

Priority seating

for senior citizens and

persons with disabilities.

For bearers of new life

cold starving artists,

bloated office workers.

For losing pitchers,

nimblefingered pickpockets,

weary teachers whose

paychecks will not stretch to meet next week.

For bowed travelers whose

voyages are far from over,

belligerent Gypsies whose caravans

have floundered in the desert,

bewildered pilgrims whose Hajj

somehow led them away from Mecca.

For Atlas and Mary

and those who only think they know

the weight and promise of the world.

Would you like my seat?

You ride to the end of the line,

but this is where I get off.

Balancing Act

I waver like the scales that represent me,

a grain of salt in one pan, a drop of water in the other,

and teeter ever so precariously,

toeing the line between here and there, and

What did you say?

Stuck up? I'm charming and diplomatic, I'll have you know—

I'll charm your ass off, mister—

and stuck up is so last year.

What? Yeah, so I write

and maybe sketch a little and paint

and make ashtrays for all my relatives—your point is?

You know, I do tend toward the avant garde.

I’m just always right about these new fashions—

you should know after so many years.

Hey, that's not exactly fair, now.

I don’t tip my judgment one way or the other;

I’m always levelheaded,

except, of course, when I’m not,

which, as you know, is practically never.

Just because my goddess Aphrodite made that one mistake once—

and might I remind you that

Hera and Athena were trying for that golden apple too?—

and sort of started the Trojan war,

that’s no reason to accuse me of shortsightedness.

And it’s unkind to point out I share a birthmonth with Himmler and Heston,

because I empathize much more with Groucho Marx,

or maybe Tommy Lasorda

(how does he maintain that eternal two-day stubble?)

Wait, what was I saying? Oh yes,

about me. There’s not all that much more to say.

But I’d love to hear some of your story.

Join me for a cup of coffee?

Oh, and I forgot to ask,

what’s your sign?

Looking/Seeing

You think you know me, I’m sure.

You see my face pancaked onto billboards,

my hands modelling the most costly rings,

my legs uncovered by the latest

in short short skirts.

If you’ve kept up-to-date

with the tabloids in the checkout lane, you’ll know

that I fall in and out of love hourly,

that I’m richer than some small countries,

that I wear my outfits once (and only once),

that I just released my memoirs.

And then, if you’re really interested,

you’ll buy my book, read the startling story

of how a poor street girl made it big

in the bright white light of America.

And so you think you know me.

But when you see me in the grocery,

eyeing the dubious “fresh ground turkey,”

selecting the least offensive loaf of whole wheat bread,

poking peaches in the produce aisle,

you never speak to me.

You approach haltingly, a silly grin on your face,

and ask my image to autograph your cereal coupon,

or you shy and walk away.