POETRY

 

Rush Hour


We had stopped at a happy hour in this jazz
club called "Buddies" or something
like that, and were feeling a good buzz
as we walked up the street. I was thinking
about my Maryland Crab Soup, and why
the chef just threw the claw in there,
shell and all, instead of cracking it open
and putting the meat straight into the broth.

It was such a drag to have this big, ugly claw
in the middle of my delicious bowl of soup.

Steam rose from three manholes in the sidewalk
as blackened road workers shouted directions
over giant heat machines. It was five o'clock
and they were slowing traffic. Businessmen
complained to themselves in the hot tar.
None of us seemed bothered by the body
curled around the pungent steam, the filthy
sidewalk a pillow to its greying head.

We didn't break stride, careful not to mention
the fact that the body was a man in his mid-fifties.
We had schedules to keep, taxis to catch, phone
calls to make. My throat tightened with the words
my mind would not speak: Maybe he's someone's
father.. Does he have a family?..Is he going to die
there?.. Will anyone move his body out of our way?
We glanced at each other with a sting of apprehension.

That conversation would, after all, be such an ugly end
to our otherwise delicious day.