Art by Norman E. Masters
Waiting in the chill, the cutting chill... Waiting in the cold, the chill cutting through our cheap slacks we could use a minor miracle, waiting for the bus that's always late ( Now there's a face worth going to hell for ) that never gets here on time. The air cold and the car horns bitching in the chill, the cutting chill of a stupid dawn, cupping our hands and blowing into them, we could use a minor miracle. ( I was staring at her ) We are standing around, we are waiting to get in line for our jobs, our " not much, and you ? " jobs... ( And I wanted to cup her face in my hands ) The white and blue light dissolving over the restaurants where the girls in stiff white blouses pull up the blinds with a snap of the wrist, over the laundrymats where the panhandlers stay awake all night reading the old newspapers. Because some of us hate going to work and we hate coming home. And there she was men standing all around her and she was laughing, and her laughter was as cold as crystal, and she threw back her head, a flaring pitch black crown and she threw their innuendos back in their faces. She had them spinning around her like atoms. Because some of us hate going to work and we hate coming home. because we cannot fuck except in print, because fucking is sometimes like rage, and because sometimes it comes like a minor miracle. And because sometimes blood fire cruelty and hate is what's needed to bring life back to life, and because I wanted to hold her then in the cold, the bastard chill running up my legs, an I don't know whether I'm describing a demon or an earth mother and she couldn't know... The woman standing at the bus stop she doesn't know that despite these words and their cutting edge that I am gentle, and this poem she gave to me isn't rape it's a misery it's like a dog struggling to speak human language... Because some of us hate going to work and we hate coming home.
Jan. - July 83'