America Lunch Line
It’s a line, a line of people waiting
to be fed, like ones we see in those
black and white pictures of other
earlier people lined up for food at
a Depression Era soup kitchen. We
still have lines like that, usually feeding
the homeless hungry folks we have
a surprising number of. But this isn’t
like those lines. This line, that stretches
a surprising distance, is made up of
a mix of people – high school and college
age guys and girls, groups of people off
on their lunch breaks, whole families with
small children and grandparents. This is
a cross-section of the present day hungry
lined up at a sandwich shop, a national
brand brings them all together. It’s a slow
line with little talking, except when they get
to order, order the size they want and all
the ingredients. They step in a sideways gait
taking them through all the add-ons, lettuce
tomatoes, mayo, onions, etc. They plan well
and are all ready to pay, perhaps tip, for all
the service and product. These aren’t folks
suffering through the Depression or through
homelessness. These are representative folks
eating representative American meals – and
seem content to line up like this for lunch.
Growing Up Monsters
And then we round them all up,
the monsters we made and ones
that others made up for us. They
were hiding, but easy to find, in
closets, under beds, in the attic, in
the cellar, in dark and dank places,
in places we knew well and other
places we only imagined. We got
them all together by the front door
with their fangs and fur, their scales
and talons, with their hot hissing
and their frightening silences. These
creatures had held us in check for
so long that seeing them there all
together whining and wiggling and
even still trying to spook us, gets us
back where they held us for so long.
But this is a new day, the childish being
inside us could now deal with them all.
We’ve grown out of all this. Like so many
other childhood things they have lost
their place in our world. Adult monsters,
the new ones are real and don’t hide, are
are outside the front door waiting their
turn at us – right after we finally get rid
of these leftovers from our childhoods.
Where We Are Going
An itinerary works well for us.
The one we made up ourselves
Or the one put together by our
Travel agent or cruise line. They
Sequence out the stops and starts
Of our journey, the angles and loops
Of our schedule. They stand for our
Future, the one we feel we can sign
Onto, the one, two, three of it. It’s
A shame that we don’t get an itinerary
For our lives: stop here, start there,
Here’s the place to begin, then time
To end that. Imagine being handed
An itinerary as we set out – friendships,
Education, occupation, love life, wins,
Loses, all the bits of what is to come
Set out, listed, planned. But the only
Itinerary we get for our lives comes to
Us late in the journey, a retrospective
Map, a played out biography. We get to
Fill this in on our own if we wish. But
Some of us, perhaps most of us, end
Up with a sketchy obituary someone
Else lines up for us, an itinerary full of
What we might have told them or what
The records show about us, our small
Sad itinerary for all to see.
