May Day
How to begin the final day
of this tumultuous month?
The cat has the right idea, writhing in the sunshine.
I join her as long as I dare, then dart out to work.
How to begin the final day? With sexy violet:
the irises along the path plump and labial,
edged with lavender, bursting with rich purples.
The sun a glowing apple. Golden delicious.
At work, I hum the Mr Rogers theme song
as I change into my uniform.
Smile and say hello to all my coworkers as they arrive,
even the ones I don’t care for.
My boss stops by to shoot the shit,
says he has a friend who’s a mortician,
who over the years has given him a collection
of titanium joints, which will not burn
when the body is cremated.
He also gave him a bunch of pacemakers.
He says that every once in a while
one of them buzzes.
I think of my coworker’s memorial service
last Sunday, in the basement of a local
union headquarters. It was a pretty grim affair,
not so much a celebration of life
as a shrug of acknowledgement.
A dozen or so blue collar guys and drinking buddies.
No one else from work showed up, and there was no
service or speech, just a bunch of tables
arranged in a square with his old campaign buttons
scattered across them. Take one, a sign implored.
I grabbed a badge with a cobra saying Ready to Strike.
A poster with a few old photos of him sat
beside letters of thanks from Clinton, Al Gore, Obama.
Meanwhile their successor is busy
brutalizing the country that suckled him
his entire life. I know I should shun the news
but the day is slow and I feel myself giving in,
sinking deeper and deeper into misery.
This was not how I wanted to spend the day.
Without meaning to, I think about my dead coworker.
He used to record terrible Trump impressions
and inflict them on everyone. It’s too bad
he won’t see this tyrant topple.
At lunch they’re all talking over one another
about reality dating shows and romance novels
about fairies and elves. I eat in silence
then slip outside for a bite of that sun
but all I can see are the people
slumped in the bus shelter, taking turns bending
over a triangle of scorched tin foil.
I want to reach into myself and pull out
the fistful of joy I know is in there, somewhere,
buried beneath the misery and frustration.
I want to take the hand of that child
who still lives inside me, still full of wonder.
But it keeps slipping out of my grip.
When I get home, I have supper
and listen to music and do some reading
and can’t seem to drag myself out
of the swamp I’ve sunken into.
Tomorrow is a new month. How to end
this final, difficult day?
With joy, with hope, with gratitude
for all I’ve been given. That’s what
I wanted. The days are long.
The sky is pristine blue. The air
is cool and sweet and I am choking on it.
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