More Poems by
Ivan
Commuter Flight:
The day the commuters learned to fly
was hell.
The air was black with them,
each freezing at altitude
despite their winter coats.
Arms outstretched
for no apparent reason
but the look of flying.
Briefcases strapped to backs,
flying directly to their floors to find
the windows wouldn't open.
Soon, they coated the skyscrapers
like bees on a beekeeper,
pounding the glass vainly
for admittance; then
clustering on rooftops,
jostling to go one by one
though little doors
down many, many stairs
to their day's work.
One game sales manager
clung with both hands
to his building's spire,
horizontally outstretched
like a pennon
of commerce.
After so many years at desks
he could no longer flutter in the wind,
but undulated gently
in the best compromise between
flaglike behavior
and the dignity
of his office.
On Wednesdays, the ladies
flew in for their matinees,
hats tightly pinned in place,
skirts firmly tucked
between their legs
(the smart ones
added snaps),
nearly colliding
with doctors outbound
for their golf.
Transit languished;
stores opened new roof entrances.
Some still preferred
the train or bus:
A chance to read
the morning papers
and to chat with
the dwindling horde
of fellow regulars.
Commuters clamored
for windows that swung open
(which Building Security
instantly nixed).
The lovesick no longer languished
on curbs beneath
their would-bes' windows;
shades went down--
shade sales went up.
Workers at lunch
sat amiably on window sills
dropping crumbs and ketchup
on the flyers-be below.
Come summer,
one low-flying voyeur
was grabbed by his heels,
and forced to skinny-dip
--full-clothed--with those
he'd spied on.
Hazards remained:
pigeons in the face,
toes stubbed
on gargoyles.
Roof gardens reopened,
closed when patrons flew
before the check could come,
reopened taking payment
with each order.
Cages covered sidewalk produce stands
against marauding teens;
outdoor bookstores had no problem:
Books, unlike oranges, are not alike;
you have to land to browse.
Few flew in rain, of course,
and none in turbulence.
Bicycle messengers
kept to their bikes,
honoring a proud tradition
and recognizing that,
with other traffic gone aloft,
they could make better speed..
The day the market fell,
investors tried to join it
but could not;
their bodies, at least,
still buoyant,
had forgotten how to fall.
Seventh Avenue
quickly came up with
flying clothes,
some done in airline livery.
The mayor of San Francisco
did celebratory flights
under all five bridges.
The mayor of New York,
seeing nobody much
made money from it,
tried to ban it:
"This cannot be," he said.
And was ignored.
Then scientists said
"This cannot be"
and proved it.
Suddenly,
everyone was grounded.
The era of flight was survived
only by folk memories
and a discreet memorial
atop 40 Wall,
where two stockbrokers
had once collided."
June 1999
Downwind of the doughnut shop;
A jelly-center sang to me.
But I walked sternly on,
breaking its soft, red, squishy heart.
—March 14, 1994 |
Kinship
On the park roadway,
a turtle-green Volvo slewed,
slowed to a turtles' pace,
as a Volvo-green turtle crossed.
—May 31, 1998
Death on the 6:05
A moment earlier,
and they’d have
bundled me upstairs,
to be made anonymous
by the crush of staring faces.
But thirty seconds from the station,
my hand already on my breast
to get my ticket, I felt my last, warm, red
explosion; startling contrast
to my view of cool green wetlands,
clear-etched by the slanting sunlight
of late afternoon.
It was a rather personal
and public death,
under the curious eyes of those
who knew my face and station,
not my name. Surprisingly,
I knew that my embarrassment
meant less, now,
than the conductor’s.
--July 16, 1993
Miracle on
the 7:33
I heard the train conductor
call out "Miracle be next."
Whazzat?!? No:
"Newark'll be next."
Not quite the same.
—October 11, 1995 |
