Phone Call

There is not much going on here,
except for the calls of our mothers
late in the night
to wake us with their misgivings
and wretched bouts of conscience,
screaming us into the next session of
"How do you feel?"

There is not much going on here,
unless you count the incessant nag
of the workers in the corridors
and brightly colored flags
of reminders waving at you
from amidst the forms to sign
and buttons to push
and slips to be delivered
on your weekend off.

There is not much going on here,
to be sure, but the rustle
of the mail as it crinkle-crinkles
its cellophane way out of the box
with the big, red letters
telling us that we are
no longer citizens worth caring
about.

There is not much going on here,
with the small exception
of the tiny drama bombs
exploding around our heads,
the friends scorned and scorning,
the people we are too tired to look upon,
the road that has grown old,
the promises not kept.

There is not much going on here,
but the dim, northern sound
of the sky on fallen
concrete and steel,
the scraping and digging,
and cheering and jeering,
the pushing and pulling,
and violent marauding
of a world that we
no longer understand.

2/18/02