NYC SUBWAY VIGNETTE

(Public domain photo from Wikipedia)



Freezing February night. Switching trains.
Manhattan subway stop – wish I could remember
The street number. Near a college, the sign said.
Been about 25 years,
But I’ll never forget
What I saw there:

Long, narrow platform; no one on it
Standing up
But me and a beat cop in uniform.
Station deserted except for him, me
And a couple of homeless guys
Passed out on two of the benches.
I didn’t care, being
Too nervous to sit.

Anyway, this cop strolls up to one,
Twirling his nightstick
As if it were a baton. Suddenly
He grips it by the handle,
Slaps it hard
Against the soles of the guy’s feet.
I thank God he’s wearing shoes.
The loud crack makes me jump,
Although I saw it coming.
The guy barely revives, looking up
Puzzled, luckily
Anesthetized on something.

The cop says, voice ringing out
Off of concrete, “Those benches
Are for PEOPLE,
Not you guys.” Then he looks back,
Flashes me a smile, white
as a blackboard soul drawn by a nun
under his little Hitler moustache.
He expects to see
Approval.
I feel sick, look
Down.
I worked late.
I’m just trying to get
Home.



– © 2010 by Jack Veasey

(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )

NOTE: "Baton" is actually now a common name for a police officer's club, but when I refer to the word here, I mean the kind marchers twirl in parades.

GRYPHON

(Bevan crest, 1892)



Your family crest
Frightens me.

Why the winged lion?

Are you trying
To lay claim
To some nobility or courage
Nature didn’t quite provide?
This symbol
Just says
“Predatory power,”
Boasting
That it can
Swoop down,
Not merely
Pounce.

Why would a normal lion
Be inadequate
For carrying the colors
Of your clan?

It might make more sense if your name
Were “Griffin.” Even then,
I’d wonder whether
You really intended
Irony.

The ability to make most creatures
Prey does not
Encourage us
To trust; it triggers
The impulse to run,
Futile as that tactic might be.

-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey


(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )

HOOT

(Wade concertina, 1886)


The old man
Pushes buttons
To play music.
Tourists passing
Donate to his hat, while
He sits
Bald
To the elements.
The songs are
Traditional, so old
That no one knows
Their authors
Anymore, telling stories
Of a life no one alive
Remembers. His low voice
Cracks like paint.

Passersby usually assume
That he’s gone blind,
But he just keeps his lids
Closed tight, so he can look
Back
Farther than the eye can see.


-- © 2010 by Jack Veasey

(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )

CLOWN

(Photo from The Orchid Club photostream on Flickr; reproduced under Creative Commons License.)



Naked, he is
Not very impressive.
He looks in the mirror
Only to apply his makeup,
To check details of disguise.

His clothing hides
His shape, skinny
And haired in odd patches.
It also hides his scars
From surgeries, supposed to
Fix his damaged heart.

The cushion that covers
His belly and crotch
Helps to fill out the plaid pants
that hang suspended from his shoulders,
A tight pull he always feels
And must ignore. After the pants,
He puts on the huge shoes, supposedly
Foreshadowing his phallus
In old wives’ tales
He knows nobody believes.
Another constriction, a bowtie,
Guards his vulnerable throat,
And looks absurd against his flannel shirt.

His face, he paints white as a mime’s,
Though any gestures he’ll make
Will be broader. His eyes, he paints
the way he thinks a woman would.
His smile, he conjures slowest --
It’s his favorite effect – it doesn’t change
No matter how he feels.

The crowning touch?
A worn fedora hat, a bit
Of Indiana Jones, though
They won’t let him hold a whip –
One time he did,
And got carried away. Last,
He puts on the bulbous rubber nose,
Which doesn’t help his cigarette-distorted breathing.
It’s red, to imply
He drinks;
One truthful note
Stuck on a symphony
Of lies.

When he appears,
Nobody laughs.
The children’s eyes only grow wide
Because they’re frightened.
So he humiliates himself
With falls and such,
Until he has them howling
Like a pack of little wolves.

Oh, well. At least
He doesn’t pose for velvet paintings.

He puts on his public persona
A piece at a time,
Like so many of us,
And, like us,
He draw’s work’s energy
From anger.

-- © 2009 by Jack Veasey


(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )

DESK JOB

(Public Domain photo from Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia)

Fluorescent lights make everyone look ill,
And all are chained, though these chains can’t be seen.
The hardest work is waiting, waiting till
The stroke of five disarms the time machine.

And all are chained, though these chains can’t be seen;
Each link’s a payment pressing to be made.
The stroke of five disarms the time machine,
But bills and bills and bills wait to be paid.

Each link’s a payment pressing to be made,
Each moment mortgaged till some future moment comes.
Bills and bills and bills wait to be paid,
As – between computers – conversation hums.

Each moment mortgaged till some future moment comes,
More and more paperwork piled softly in the bin.
As – between computers – conversation hums,
Forbidden music mustn’t complicate the din.

More and more paperwork piles softly in the bin,
In cubicles the gods insist must look the same.
Forbidden music mustn’t complicate the din,
and no framed photos. Just a plate that says your name.

In cubicles the gods insist must look the same,
Where light that’s natural must never penetrate,
Are no framed photos. Just a plate that says your name.
And where your heart should be, a leaden paperweight.

Where light that’s natural may never penetrate,
Year after year of furtive search will only find
Where your heart should be, a leaden paperweight,
And no song but the drone of the dulled mind.

Year after year of furtive search will only find
That what we see remains all that we will,
And no song but the drone of the dulled mind
Can ease the ache from all this sitting still.

What we see remains all that we will.
The hardest work is waiting, waiting till
Retirement blunts the ache from all this sitting still.
Fluorescent lights make everyone look ill.


– © 1995 by Jack Veasey

(All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced or duplicated in any form without the author's written permission. )