A photo four ways. Taken with my little digi, on the way home, through the window on the freeway, with traffic all around, the heat cranked, and cold wind blasting in. I write a lot about getting out. Escaping the desk job. Running away. Breaking free. But the truth is, I am free. I am proud to make my way. On my own. My job pays the bills, gives me breathing room, allows me to save a little here and there for travel and dancing shoes and exotic spices. Still, wouldn’t it be amazing to just leap and finally bust loose…..with nothing but a song & the open road. Such is the stuff dreams & stories are made of.
Lunch Hour
When the clock strikes gone,
I am. Down the hall,
past the employee lounge,
conference room, silver
drinking fountain, and through the doors,
squinting into the bright air.
Saffron and cinnamon leaves cover
the sidewalk for miles.
Thankfully, the army
of leaf-blower ants has yet to invade
this neighborhood. A crisp wind
is tossing a brilliant leaf confetti
from the fiery bed heads of dozens
of large-bosomed maples.
The trees are gossiping above me,
with tough accents that sound Puerto Rican
or Dominican. They smack their shiny
maple syrup lips and shake their sassy
hips as their sap runs
fast and sticky with attitude.
The ghost of a woman dressed all in
pink who worked in my building
leans into the breeze. I never knew her
her name. She stood in the parking lot
at noon each day and smoked,
puffed like a stack while the maples laughed.
They warned her more than once, but
her lungs collapsed in a heap of ash
one day and she simply went away,
except for her ghost and a lonely tossed butt,
curled now against the cold curb like a finger.
A tiny girl in a little red coat and black boots
is tugging on a shiny dark brown braid.
In a small pond,park ducks paddle
around like bathtub toys. The girl points
into the cobalt sky and shouts in Russian.
Across the street, an old man holds a scruffy terrier
by a ragged brown leash while the Latina maples
snicker and make fun of his yellow hat.
The poor dog, his back humped,
looks one way. The man looks the other.
I follow the girl’s gaze into the sky.
A remote control plane,
blue and yellow, is buzzing
just above the gossiping trees,
two scrappy boys in jeans making it go.
I will go too, someday, slip beneath
the street, perhaps, screaming silently through
the storm grate in a torrent.
But here today, I am and when
the clock struck in, I went.
Past the bobbing ducks,
squealing girl, silly boys,
confetti leaves, gossiping trees,
buzzing toys, shameful dog,
puffing stack, and through the doors,
past the drinking fountain,
conference room, employee lounge,
into my desk where tinted windows
disguise the seasons, and triple-paned
glass muffles the accents, colors and reasons.
Deep, deep inside where the gossip is mean
and death smells like new carpet.
–GW
