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Standing in the middle of Olympic Plaza,
I gaze up at glass architectural monstrosities
Where important things like roads, transit routes, taxes, tourism,
health care plans, hospitals, and the homeless are discussed.
Glancing at Rolexes, jabbing at Blackberries,
The movers and makers of city life want only to get down to the street,
Into an air conditioned restaurant, away from the heat of decision-making,
And blessedly separated from the Timex people who jab at ipods,
Who hope the sweaty line at the hotdog vendor moves quickly today.

There is the museum, keeper of secrets.
Proofs of our maturity reside there. We are cultured.
Cameras watch us. We are curios.
Next to it, the theatre where later, night will fall like a velvet curtain.
Tuxedoed men and women sparkle and share sparkling conversation.
They’ll plan expensive dinners where they’ll discuss the plight of the poor.
“They really must be moved away from the vents near our culture.”

Now, staggering into view, bent from heat and lack of food,
Comes a shopping cart dweller—a cage on wheels, his world.
I smell him before I hear him, or nearly hear him.
The train rumbles by and I wonder if this man knew the cart-home owner
Slashed from his cage yesterday when the train smashed him into oblivion.

A siren sounds, then another. Police. Ambulance. Fire engine.
We look to the trains--just in case the sirens
Are a call to witness death amid fast-flowing life.

". . . change for the train 'cause I got a job I need to get to."
Who told him that lie works better than "I need to eat"?

I ask him if he wants a hotdog.
He dismisses me with a one-finger wave, and I feel guilty.
I pass the place where a legless man used to sit.
I gave him all the money in my purse once: eighty-seven cents.
He threw the pennies at my back, called me a cheap bitch.
I suddenly feel less guilty.

I gaze up at the high rise where I lived in younger years.
The city was different then, wasn't it?
I lived and breathed its energy, but now I feel claustrophobic.
I want only to validate my ticket, step on the train, and escape to my life.
I desperately need my mid-suburbia.
And I will escape—
Right after my doctor writes another prescription.
I need my anxiety medication.



** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only **
Sig 1: "Kim" is from Paint Shop Pro 8, but I drew the books.
Sig 2: Caricature of myself.

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