Shadows We Will
Never Escape
All day as we work
|
we stare
|
out the rolled-open tin door at the 50-story downtown
L.A. WELLS FARGO
|
and BANK OF AMERICA and CITICORP
|
buildings gleaming
|
in the sun with all their wealth and power
|
trying
|
to keep our children fed
|
trying to keep from losing hope
|
and throwing in the towel
|
on our low wages
|
riding buses
|
bicycles
|
thin
|
with hangovers making us teeter and hold our
stomachs
|
over pitted concrete floors
|
and stumps instead of fingers
|
we go without glasses and teeth and hope of
anything
|
but poverty
|
in old age we
|
stick our chests out and throw around 100-pound vises
and try not
|
to get strung out on drugs
|
or pick up guns and go crazy as we work
|
in the shadows
|
of those buildings
|
so close
|
with so much wealth and power we stare
|
out at those towering shining buildings
|
from the shadows on the concrete floor
|
of our factory
|
until we truly begin to know what it feels like
|
to be buried alive.
|
Broken Tooth and
Shoelace and Dream
At break I read in the paper of democracy.
|
I look across this machine shop where men
|
sweat and wipe grease off their arms all day
|
toward the owner in his office
|
the owner
|
who will not give us one dime's worth of a raise
|
or a bonus
|
who can fire us
|
whenever he decides to
|
our arms and shoulders and spirits aching and wearing
out
|
fighting with these broken machines
|
he will not fix
|
our children
|
losing their teeth
|
what vote
|
will fix this what word
|
we might utter or shout in bar or street or marketplace
|
can make us feel better
|
though we may walk wherever we want in this city and
say
|
whatever we feel like we still
|
must return
|
Monday morning to put on the steel-toed shoes
|
and the greasy work clothes and shove in the earplugs
|
and stand on the concrete floor
|
at the mercy of a man who holds our lives in the palm
of his hand
|
a man
|
worth millions of dollars who keeps us so we cannot
afford
|
shoelaces
|
as we sit on our stools at break and open our
newspapers and
|
read about our wonderful
|
democracy.
|
Fred Voss has published three books of poetry: Goodstone, Bete Noire, Bloodaxe Books (UK), 1991; Carnegie Hall with Tin Walls, Bete
Noire, Bloodaxe Books (UK), 1998; and Hammers
and Hearts of the Gods, Bete Noire, Bloodaxe Books (UK), 2009. His poetry
has been published in such periodicals as Wormwood
Review, Atlanta Review, Pearl, 5 AM,
Nerve Cowboy, Poetry Review (London),
Ambit (London), The SHOp (Ireland)
and others. His first novel is called Making
America Strong.
In 1964 I too stood in a filthy factory on a pitted concrete floor working in airless heat until the metal wall/door was partially opened to an even more intense heat and sun that exchanged one form of physical torment for another. The factory was an illegal one that tapped into electricity and showed no sign of ownership or title. We were paid in cash at the end of each day. We knew that one day we would show up when the factory inside the building would be stripped and gone. Yet the Chicago downtown skyline could be seen in the distance. I fully understood and lived "we go without glasses and teeth and hope of anything" and felt the throbbing despair of anticipation of even worse times. I, however, was fortunate to be between my freshman and sophomore year of college on a real scholarship that paid for my tuition and books. As I lived in my grandparents' attic for free, I had to pay for everything else such as socks, underwear, meals aside from supper, etc. Free lodging and free food once a day. A single pair of shoes with holes in the soles made for pain whether walking or standing. But... I knew I was fortunate because I knew I had a chance to escape. Hope. None of the other men of all ages had that sense of hope, but they worked on and on grasping at the unlikely possibility that their children might escape the cycle of ignorance, violence, alcohol and poverty. In 2015 America, that hope of a hope is gone.
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