no saviour and no special grace
what does it matter
i am sitting in my apartment
the bedroom
and looking out the window
at the people going by
and the afternoon meaning nothing
it is summer and it is hot
the people on the street are dying
i can see it from my window
i am looking down and dying too
there is no getting away from it
the mercury topped a hundred yesterday
and will do it again today
where do we hide
the rent is due
so is my bill at morries
morries, the greasy spoon across the street
they know me there
i go in and have a cheeseburg
mustard, tomato, lettuce
a can or two of coke
and then as i go out the door
i say 'hey marg ,
put it on the bill"
and she does
if i have a reading and make a few bucks
i go in and cash my cheque
marg gives me the difference
we get along fine
but
back to the afternoon
i can see people walking into morries
and coming out the same
hot and confused
looking for answers
finding none
i can see in the window
an electric fan rotates
slowly
from the counter
beside the bran muffins and butter tarts under glass
and the fan doesn't make any difference
it just moves the hot air around the room
cars drift by the window
for all i know
they are doing nothing
just driving around the few blocks downtown
to make it look like the city isn't dying
a clever plot
masterminded by the mayors and his bandits
they've cut off the welfare
and are giving away gas
to those with cars
"just drive around the downtown core, boys,
make it look like we've still got a chance"
i can hear him growling
he's lying on the floor of his office
the bourbon in one hand and knife in the other
if he was a roman
they'd find him chin deep in the water
crimson bracelets
but he isn't caesar and this isn't rome
so i'm stuck on the top floor looking down
and what does it matter
the only store on the street
doing any business
is the sally ann
suits with one pair of pants for three dollars
books by the pound
it used to be only the broke
with holes in their shoes
would wander in the door
but not anymore
there is no pride left
there is nothing left
nothing
if i had an egg
i could cook it on the danger high voltage sidewalk
and if i had some bacon
hell, if i had some bacon
you know, the long green
i wouldn't be sitting in the window
i'd be over at the king's
watching one of the ladies
back dancing and giving it away
sipping one of those long cool shots
and listening to the back music
while someone else's princess stood up there
she'd be wrapped in red
or something
and she'd be taking it off
but it doesn't matter
because i can hear them knocking
at the door
and they are coming for me
it doesn't even matter who they are
i've got the furniture piled against the door
if they want me
they can come in the windows
or come through the roof
and until they do
there is the street
with the cars drifting past
they come from somewhere
and go somewhere else
and all the time
they are nowhere
i watch the people go by
sometimes they'll be pretty women or a handsome man
it doesn't matter
they are all doomed
they just have further to fall
maybe that's it
the wisdom of poverty
when the boom comes down the poor have nowhere to fall
they are already there
they lose so little
you don't miss what you never had
i can see it
the old women with plastic bags full of their histories
they will survive
if only from habit
but what of the beauty shop queens
who spend tuesdays at the club
when the club closes the doors
and they have nothing left
but to walk by my window
what will they do
i see them now
as they will be soon
screaming on the street
and pulling their hair
their men will be weak things
crying and pulling at their teeth
there will be no saviour
and no special grace
the end will come
as quickly and as surely
as the noon explosion
of the engine of sixty-three pontiac
pushed to the limit
just once too often
and i'll watch it
the engine blowing on the street below
marg will serve coffee to the bystanders
there will be blood and gasoline
on the blacktop
the heat melting them to one
and it will be a sign
the stores will close their doors
Copyright © michael dennis / South Western Ontario Poetry 1983
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