Digging

Hello, my name is Frank.
I’m homeless
SOBER
God Bless.

Every day I stand here in this fry-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk
heat and send forth my message of hope.

Every day lost. Big Dig chaos. Lethal
electric wires snake around in the sand,
slither between culverts, shrouds of black plastic,
chunks of concrete, oil-slick standing water.

Wish I could fly like this dragonfly landed
on my sign (this vision of pastoral playfulness);
instead I’m breathing exhaust, listening
to exhausted sirens, watching
a ruddy-necked crane operator wrestling
gears, thrashing infrastructure. Saw him
thrashing that blond again in the alley last night.

Dragonfly can fly away, leave
all these suits and skirts carrying
little white lunch bags, lattés
curdling stomachs, these deafening machines
coughing up the dust, digging down, down…

I drank my way to this pavement,
threw all my blueprints
out of the window of the 32nd floor.

The Big Dig’s using nearly every crane
on the Eastern seaboard. And while
all our cranes are rearranging the downtown
freeway, swinging pieces of tar, metal and rock,
what will happen if buildings crumble
in some other city and we need to pull
bleeding victims from the wreckage?

The new tunnels are already
leaking water. Rush hour traffic stalls for hours. What if
water creeps up over the wheels, the door handles
the windows, until cell phones, groceries and
lipsticks are floating like little barges
up out of the darkness
and out to sea?

Passing

I am like a tree
in winter.
Every branch, curve,
knot, flaw
exposed
to your stare.
No leaves protect,
Just a layer of bark
against
the elements.

Peel it back
you will see
inside I am
filled with
dizzying circles of years

I drive roots deep
so the wind
of your passing
will not cause me
to bend or sway.
Still,
you might hear
the snap
of a branch
lost to the bare earth.

—Kyle Cushman