Marla of the Amtrak and more...

MARLA OF THE AMTRAK

Marla sits alone in a space invisible

where no one else will sit

as though age is contagious

and blackness rubs off

with hair suspiciously not her own,

she is content with the sound of

silver train silent clicking on the track

suddenly there are voices insulting the "quiet sign"

in a rolling tongue foreign intrusion of

“chica con bambino” who can’t read

English and “if you’re going to live

in the country, learn to speak the language”

racists come to mind who want to build walls to keep

out the chill of becoming inconsequential;

“If it wasn’t for you I could get a job” NRA members itching

for a kill

the quiet car irritation of “learn to speak the language”

chica with a baby that is liable

to say anything; unedited

(white people rolling their eyes)

out of control silence that

speaks without permission

sits behind the black woman

with the thrift store pocketbook, knapsack

and brown paper bag of cheese

and crackers on the seat that

nobody wanted

woman “set in her ways” who

seeks predictability

for whom a fall off the kitchen ladder

might as well be a stray bullet,

wants to change her seat because

in one overwhelming “learn to speak the language”

moment chica has stepped on the air

that she breathes

woman too feathers and sequins for AARP

notes: I come from stolen-fruit-and-Marched in Selma

stock that hasn’t finished fighting

when here they come all ready-to-work

taking jobs people say we don’t want

code for “ain’t niggahs lazy”

spitting on us in the tongue of their contempt

flashback: I lit candles and said morning

prayers just last year, my personal relationship

with God engorged with Biblical quotes and post-its

stuck in the KJV large print (mental note to buy incense)

maybe I need to go back to church

she plugs her ear buds into the computer

and plays Spotify tunes that take

her back to Jackie Wilson and

“You Better Stop Doggin’ Me

Around” only to learn that he

stroked out on stage singing “Lonely Teardrops”

and lived in a coma until he died at 49;

People say life is a chess game

but it’s really Russian roulette

the velvet tones of Jackie Wilson

stop the annoying hammer

of intolerance mixed with age and suspicion

banging in her ears

but the smooth sleek predictable rhythm of

the train has been lost…

Smokey Robinson “Tracks of

My Tears” is next

CARELESS

you brought wine, bread and cheese into a perfect fall day; sun sparkling on talking brook; trees listening and ready to flame; your eye never fell from me, not to open the wine, or cut the bread, or help me onto the rock in the middle of the stream; and my hands fluttered like startled birds twisting hair behind my ear away from eyes that held me close nervous that you would not like me or like me too much

it was a time when I was careless and discarded days like old movie ticket stubs, broken brown barrettes, useless single earrings, the love notes that you sent, and with the kiss of time and its exacting fee, youth flew and wisdom settled in; I had missed perfection

NOAH'S CAFE

fat on slow life and savory

we found an oasis from the

careless cruelty of the day

café conversation

hummed and

faded horbor scenes

hung on wooden shores;

a port of call for

the listless, Noah's

when you entered they

knew your name

there were cigarettes

for the taking

old seafaring maps decorated

simple tables that didn't match

and in the corners hunched

flax coffee bags soft as weeping breasts

with phantom boats a ghost or two

we gathered to sip and chat and chew;

you could almost hear the captain's bell

announce there was some tale to tell

in winter's fray 'gainst stormy blow

we talked of things

we could not know

and time seemed a mere curtain's breath

'tweenst coffee dawn and harbor's depths