Post by brianedwards on Oct 27, 2008 3:20:41 GMT -5
Directing Traffic
He used to be God,
looking down at all the ant-people
from the window of his 18th floor office.
He would often stand there and fantasize
about climbing out onto the ledge,
just to feel the wind, the rush.
He would take 2-hour lunch breaks at Kojyu,
dine on marbled sole and oval squid,
simmered gourds with lotus and adzuki beans,
broiled eel softer than a virgin's labia,
sashimi fresh enough to raise the dead . . . but,
once, he walked down to Toyama Park,
where crowds gather in the pink of spring,
and the homeless sleep under blue tarpaulin. He brought
miso soup and hot ōcha,
knelt down and served them,
dampness seeping through bespoke silk trousers,
and he laughed at their tall tales and blue jokes,
was fascinated by the colour of their teeth and hands,
their animal skin and nails, their erratic body hair.
He worked 10 hours a day, 6 days a week, for 42 years.
When he retired he realised he didn't know a thing
about his wife, or his children,
or himself.
He took a part-time job as a flag man
directing the traffic at building sites. He waves
a red baton and wears a flourescent green bib.
He eats cold ōbento, drinks tea from a flask,
hunkers down with the younger guys,
listening to their tall tales and dirty jokes.
Some days there is no traffic,
but it's his responsibility to keep it moving
when it comes.
And that's what he does:
he moves people along,
moves them along.
OR
Directing Traffic
He used to be God, looking down at all the ant-people from the window of his 18th floor office. He would often stand there and fantasize about climbing out onto the ledge, just to feel the wind, the rush. He would take 2-hour lunch breaks at Kojyu, dine on marbled sole and oval squid, simmered gourds with lotus and adzuki beans, broiled eel softer than a virgin's labia, sashimi fresh enough to raise the dead . . . but, once, he walked down to Toyama Park, where crowds gather in the pink of spring, and the homeless sleep under blue tarpaulin. He brought miso soup and hot ōcha, knelt down and served them, dampness seeping through bespoke silk trousers, and he laughed at their tall tales and blue jokes, was fascinated by the colour of their teeth and hands, their animal skin and nails, their erratic body hair.
He worked 10 hours a day, 6 days a week, for 42 years.
When he retired he realised he didn't know a thing about his wife, or his children, or himself.
He took a part-time job as a flag man directing the traffic at building sites. He waves a red baton and wears a flourescent green bib. He eats cold ōbento, drinks tea from a flask, hunkers down with the younger guys, listening to their tall tales and dirty jokes. Some days there is no traffic, but it's his responsibility to keep it moving when it comes. And that's what he does: he moves people along, moves them along.
He used to be God,
looking down at all the ant-people
from the window of his 18th floor office.
He would often stand there and fantasize
about climbing out onto the ledge,
just to feel the wind, the rush.
He would take 2-hour lunch breaks at Kojyu,
dine on marbled sole and oval squid,
simmered gourds with lotus and adzuki beans,
broiled eel softer than a virgin's labia,
sashimi fresh enough to raise the dead . . . but,
once, he walked down to Toyama Park,
where crowds gather in the pink of spring,
and the homeless sleep under blue tarpaulin. He brought
miso soup and hot ōcha,
knelt down and served them,
dampness seeping through bespoke silk trousers,
and he laughed at their tall tales and blue jokes,
was fascinated by the colour of their teeth and hands,
their animal skin and nails, their erratic body hair.
He worked 10 hours a day, 6 days a week, for 42 years.
When he retired he realised he didn't know a thing
about his wife, or his children,
or himself.
He took a part-time job as a flag man
directing the traffic at building sites. He waves
a red baton and wears a flourescent green bib.
He eats cold ōbento, drinks tea from a flask,
hunkers down with the younger guys,
listening to their tall tales and dirty jokes.
Some days there is no traffic,
but it's his responsibility to keep it moving
when it comes.
And that's what he does:
he moves people along,
moves them along.
OR
Directing Traffic
He used to be God, looking down at all the ant-people from the window of his 18th floor office. He would often stand there and fantasize about climbing out onto the ledge, just to feel the wind, the rush. He would take 2-hour lunch breaks at Kojyu, dine on marbled sole and oval squid, simmered gourds with lotus and adzuki beans, broiled eel softer than a virgin's labia, sashimi fresh enough to raise the dead . . . but, once, he walked down to Toyama Park, where crowds gather in the pink of spring, and the homeless sleep under blue tarpaulin. He brought miso soup and hot ōcha, knelt down and served them, dampness seeping through bespoke silk trousers, and he laughed at their tall tales and blue jokes, was fascinated by the colour of their teeth and hands, their animal skin and nails, their erratic body hair.
He worked 10 hours a day, 6 days a week, for 42 years.
When he retired he realised he didn't know a thing about his wife, or his children, or himself.
He took a part-time job as a flag man directing the traffic at building sites. He waves a red baton and wears a flourescent green bib. He eats cold ōbento, drinks tea from a flask, hunkers down with the younger guys, listening to their tall tales and dirty jokes. Some days there is no traffic, but it's his responsibility to keep it moving when it comes. And that's what he does: he moves people along, moves them along.
