Thursday, April 21, 2005


Reflections on a Business Trip

I ride the Silver Aerial Bus again,
Heading north.
Italian Tommy meets me: my Corporate Friend.
The New York sky is blue, fantastic.
But my afternoon is spent with the sound of jackhammers
And the smell of molten plastic.
We leave the dingy plant
And roll - intermittently - along the Harlem River.
I gaze across at the House that Ruth built, a scant
Mile away. There, men with bats and balls
Make their living, running bases and contesting
Umpires’ calls.
If only I could earn a living thus, I think:
Wearing pinstriped whites.
I frown and blink,
And feel the age encroaching in my bones.
My life is paperwork,
Computers and cell phones.
A springtime day, all green in leaf and bud
Cam make me daydream, but
The smell of molten plastic’s in my blood.

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