Stranger, Betrayer, Surveyor

It takes minutes every morning, head on pillow, awareness dodging, to get a sense of place.  Checking in with touchstones, city, hotel, activities. Opening the drapes to see alien landscapes, darkness, weather, dropping coffee in the machine, searching for toothpaste, cold, plugging in the iron to warm it in time for pressing, looking in the mirror for solace from the one true known person that stranger, betrayer, surveyor. Calculating time zones, meeting times, quick bite, coffee on the corner, then off to kick the shit out of whatever comes next.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com/ 2013

Sea Clouds

From above
Banks of clouds are oceans
Boiling against each other
White rolling crests
Cradling helpless hidden boats
Puffy balls of vapor as far as the horizon
Peaceful
Perfect
Disguising the torrent below
Symmetrical rows of diamonds
Floating fields of crops
Incendiary folds, hills, lakes
Restless
Offering to support the plane
And carry it to heaven

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: Sandramat

Pie

Somewhere in Kansas
I felt my eyes closing,
Stopped for coffee and pie.
I pulled off the access road,
Parked my rig,
Walked the few yards back to
The small cafe and its
Broken neon sign.
I sat on a stool
Ordered jet black java,
Lemon meringue,
Engaged the owner/cook in conversation,
Ed.
We talked about long hauls
And life in his small town.
It's not all it's cracked up to be, said Ed.
I guess.
A lotta folks think I have it made,
Owning my own place,
Out of the rat race, so to speak,
This place isn't so bad.
He sounded desperate to convince me.
I hadn't the heart to tell Ed the meringue was bad,
Tough and rubbery,
Egg whites over beaten.
It made me gag.
Ed asked if I was OK.
I sipped the coffee,
My eyes began to water.
I coughed
A piece of the pie landed on the counter.
It's not the pie, he said.
It's never the pie.
We're famous for our pie.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Photo: Renee Comet

The Empire Builder

My train is an hour late.
When I finally board
I sit by a west window
And keep an eye on the Hudson,
The low clouds
Touching the trees and
The grand isolated homes on the other side.
I imagine a lonely woman inside one of the larger white houses
Sitting at a breakfast nook
Gazing out at the water and
My train speeding south.
I try to connect with her telepathically
Wanting to feel what it's like to be wealthy
And wake up in a quiet estate
Wearing slippers
Fetching the paper from the gravel path,
Working the crossword over a cup of fresh coffee
As the 280 from upstate passes
And wondering why her husband has come home late
Three nights in a row.
The train stops short of the Rhinecliff station.
Something's wrong.
I get off and walk the rest of the way
Looking for something better.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012
Image: David Hermeyer and Samuel Wantman

Sleeper

The man next to me on the plane is sleeping
Trapping me in the window seat.
The urge to pee begins to
Nag.
I work to ignore it and
Refuse a drink from the whispering flight attendant
For fear it will worsen my condition.
I am sure he will wake soon,
Can't snooze coast to coast.
At least he's a quiet sleeper,
No snores,
No drool.
His head, beanie pulled down over his eyes,
Is turned toward me,
Mouth slightly open.
I don't fault him for his rest,
But am annoyed he never turned off his phone,
As if it would actually bring down the plane.
I think about maneuvering over him,
Stepping carefully, balancing, trying not to wake him.
I doubt that will work.
The bathroom open light is illuminated,
Green,
Inviting,
Mocking,
Taunting me with promise.
Still, I wait,
My eyes filling,
Staring into my anonymous companion's
Open mouth.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012 
 Photo: Poem Fix

Transit Limbo

I sit in an airport again,
Waiting for a pilot
To take me to another airport.
A half-hour delay drags into three hours.
Exploring dingy newsstands,
Bagel kiosks,
Crummy restaurants with day-old nachos.
My back hurts from sitting, waiting,
Calculating time,
Draining the laptop battery.
Next to me, the purple lady with bad lipstick complains.
This is the worst thing ever, she says,
I'm never flying this airline again.
I tell her to blame the storm ripping through the region,
But she looks at me as if I have a social disease.
Weather, shmeather, she says,
Flying used to be fun, used to be glamorous,
Now they treat you like criminals.
I move away from her and sit across from a woman,
With explosive cleavage.
I try not to notice and put my head down.
I figure out what time it is at home and where I'm headed,
Heavy math,
Wondering if the hotel will save my room.
I think about my kids and where they might be
And what they're doing,
My wife who's sitting in bed alone.
One more day I won't see them,
Good or bad,
Absent father.
Living in airports.
If all the time I waited came together,
How much time would I have?
And what would I do with it to make me a better man?

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

Miami and Israel 1973

They don't have much, but
They never said one time,
I would like to swap positions with you.
Not once.
They want to build up the country and maybe be like the U.S.,
Strong.
Sure, there are some complaints.
They think they are better Jews than you.
But maybe they have a right to think it, no?
Maybe they feel like they do more than we do for a country that's ours,
That we share.
And all we give is maybe money.
For they give their blood,
Blood and sweat, really.
And hard labor.
But, oh, the way those women look down on American women.
They think we're pampered,
Pampered spoiled brats.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com and Ruth Petrovsky 2012
Photo by ארכיון גן-שמואל

Russian Cognac

My hosts in Moscow thought I was Russian
Because my surname ends in s-k-y
And is identical to the names of
Famous Russian historical figures, streets, parks, theaters, stadiums.
Two generations ago
My family blood ran in a small village near Minsk,
Where relatives fought through pogroms and other conflicts.
So I suppose I am Russian,
Though I don't speak the language
Nor worship vodka.
But Moscow,
Cold and foreign,
Seemed welcoming and familiar.
I ate at a restaurant with my last name above the door,
Where I was treated like a celebrity,
An expatriate returned in triumph.
The owner asked if I wanted cognac.
I declined, but that meant nothing.
A squat bottle emblazoned with my name was thrust at me
Despite my protestations.
I drank until I couldn't see,
Until I understood the waiter when he said nazdrovia,
Until he invited me to banya, a steam bath.
He was just being friendly but I managed to decline in
Fear, self-doubt and inferiority,
And so became a true Muscovite.

© Poem Fix http://www.poemfix.com 2012

On a Plane

The man next to me is sleeping
But his movie keeps playing
I long for such contentment
And the strength of noise cancellation
Why do I envy the man I do not know?
I close my eyes
The plane falls violently away beneath me
Saved by the seat belt
Startled and fooled
Disconnected from time and place
I think about everything I have and haven't done
And wonder if it is too late
I crack the shade and grow melancholy at the wing hugging the cloud
So many miles
So much distance
Mistakes, waste, nostalgia, abandoned promises
The momentum of time is crushing
The man next to me wakes up and we joust for the armrest

© Poem Fix http;//www.poemfix.com 2012