I’m passing under the sky-bridge
and she’s above, slowly walking
across. I can’t see her breath in the
early morning cold, but I know
it’s there. It could be that she’s
drunk, or hungry and tired, but,
there it is, she’s wiping down the
handrails. And the gull cries and echoes
in the alleys of our minds.
She takes great care, as she walks,
she could just as easily be watching YouTube
or something while she works, but she’s not. She’s
wiping the handrails. With the same
attention and care that she makes
dinner for her grand-kids, she’s wiping
the handrails. Then it hits me,
I’ve been faking it this whole time,
I’m just a dreamer with his head stuck
in the clouds, waiting, no, hoping, for worlds
beyond this to open up to me, and where
has that gotten me —an appreciation for
the woman wiping the handrails on the
sky-bridge, at least. You can see her
beauty in her age, You can feel the
warmth in her hugs, does she,
does she know me? I imagine her standing
there at the end of the walkway, on
game-day, watching, arms folded, rag in her
hand under her arm with a little smirk on
her face watching the hoards cross over
as the kids rush passed guiding
their hands along the rail, as the old folks use it
as a third leg.
But she doesn’t. I know this. I’m dreaming again.
These cities no longer have walls, but they’ve
been built by fear all the same. What effect
has that had on our psyche, I wonder.
Now I’m thinking I should give the kids a big
hug when I get home, tell them I’m quitting the
world, we’re moving, leaving it all behind.
We’re going to survive in the fields,
we may not have heat tonight, there probably
won’t be a show on in the morning, but maybe
we’ll feel our heart beating.
And the morning fog drops
like a curtain
and the turn blinker is an orchestra
the way a drop of water contains an ocean.
Somebody should tell her—
You here it everywhere; people looking for work, people trafficking people who need work, people move for work; there wasn’t any work, so they moved. The economy’s doing great, unemployment rates are lowest they’ve ever been. What is this condition we’ve created? Now here’s the thing, I hear a lot of complaining about work, about the need to work, about just getting paid and letting the machines do it for us, but I believe that it is an essential human need, to work; fills our cups, and if we lose it then we lose an essential part of our spirit. But, the question remains, what is employment and is this the best we can do?