American Guest
And here I met a fellow-being and a fellow countryman,
with as good title to freedom as myself.
—Elihu Burritt's Journal, Nov. 27, 1846
Late November, London, guttering day-
light, you return to your unlit
room too cheap for comfort, to find
a stranger, darker shadow hunched
over the fire: jaws
too clenched to say his name: black
stowaway from a slave-block
in the mint-julep Home of the Free,
hanging—
no, it's his ragged calico
that hangs coatwise, still dripping
bilge-green seawater in puddles.
Of your two overcoats, you offer him
the better, easing his locked
elbows into free sleeves.
Your old mournful hat, as well—
you've just bought yourself
a new one, and who on God's good earth
needs the luxury of two
of anything? A man travels lighter
for what he gives willingly away.
Reckoning
The old body lies naked
on a hospital bed. Its skin
is ashen with the blue tattoo
of veins; anklebone and elbow,
vertebrae like calibrations
down the spine, a chart
for anyone to read.
Doctor, nurses, daughter
and a creditor or two. Priest
arrives too late to cure
the septicemia of sin. At least
7000-plus commissions, as many
gentle acts omitted. Someone
asks how much, exactly,
was he worth? A lawyer
punches in the figures—
insolvency in digital display.
Unspoken shrift
of solitude. What angel
black or bright
comes to snatch this
soul away?
Copyright 2River. Please do not use or reproduce without permission.
The 2River View | Authors Poems PDF Archives 2River |