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Greetings from Atlantic City

There's a tear in the casino lobby's carpet,
Crudely patched with silver tape. The kid
At the desk looks at his phone. Two old
Men in pastel jackets sit and talk, their
Bags nearby. A tour bus will take them
Home. Nobody else is coming in.
Out on the beach, the wind is cold.
A woman, far off, walks her dog.
Half the Steel Pier's shops are closed.
I enter one that's open. No one's
There who I can see. I bring a postcard
To the counter, and a woman soon
Appears. She looks at me and it,
And snorts. “'Greetings from Atlantic City.'
What a load of shit.”


International Workers' Day

May Day's come. It's raining, and I'm
Eating sausages and eggs inside a
Truck stop in North Platte. Some
Lardy truckers also eat. A rail-thin
Woman wielding coffee weaves
Among the men, and fills their mugs,
And asks about the food. They all
Say everything's okay. There are
No banners hung, proclaiming
Worker solidarity. No one speaks
Or demonstrates. The ruling class
Remains secure. The truckers rise
And pay and leave. Each climbs
Into his truck alone, a symbol of
America: the land of workers
Who would rather be defeated
Singly than declare themselves
A class.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 78 times
Written on 2016-05-02 at 00:09

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