Voices From The Past

May 2, 2016 § Leave a comment

I have spent the better part of this afternoon trying to bring some semblance of order to the room I laughingly call my office. It is certainly “off,” I’ll admit.

The problem (one of many) is that I have hundred of albums (you remember vinyl, don’t you?) that I no longer play. (Actually, I can no longer play it.) That, and sheets of paper with notes, lyrics, etc., on them.

In weeding through the various detritus on my desk, I came across a couple of poems I wrote years ago. One of the poems is from 2004; the other has no date.

Although I normally post lyrics on this blog, I thought I would share these poems here, starting with the dated poem from 2004. (Although I finished the poem, I never gave it a title, something I will remedy here.)

Coffee Club

In the corner, a small girl cries
Mommy said no again
To the left, a young man stares at nothing
His girlfriend said goodbye
And the conversations fly like
Random shots – a verbal drive-by
“Well, Molly said, ‘Did you hear what Ted did . . .’ ”
“I can’t believe she would . . . ”
“He couldn’t, could he?”

At the door, an overage woman
In an under-aged shirt
Shows off what is no longer there
For the men who no longer look
The willingness written for all to see
Like pages in an open book
“Oh, I never . . . Well, maybe just this once”
“Will you think any less of me?”
“Will you think of me at all?”

And the face behind the counter,
Jaded beyond her years,
Takes it all it, business as usual
Courtesy, but nothing more for $8.00 an hour
And the orders flow like water underneath a bridge
“Latte, half-caf, skim . . .”
“Cappuccino, double shot.”
“Large coffee and a biscotti”
“Could you make that to go?”

Old man, head buried in the paper
Young man, head glued to his cell
“Oh, he takes everything so seriously”
“But she’s so high-maintenance, I heard”
Meanwhile, the machine-gun noises of
The register scatters its financial fire
The whoosh of steaming milk
Marks the climax to some caffeinated orgasm
For the happy family of strangers in the coffee club

 

8 A.M.

Like lemmings to the sea we rush
To make our eight
To get our 40
To get that paper slip
To verify our worth
Is it pink?

Daily, we lie prostrate
Before the corporate gods
Supplicants to the “greater good”
In service to the almighty green
The bottom line –
Is it red?

Day in, day out
No different drum to march to,
Here, we rank low and file away our dreams
In circular recesses
Only one dream counts
With $ and zeroes attached

Few respites from the daily toil
Nose to the grindstone
Back to the grind; back to the wall
Inside four walls, need rats in a maze
In search of cheese, we take the bait
Becoming cogs in the corporate machine

Wearing down
Bit by bit, interchangeable
Replaceable, erasable
Forgettable
And one day,
Gone

© 2016 Walt Huntsman. All rights reserved.

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