Streets

after the poems “These Streets” and “39,000 Feet” by Jose Angel Araguz

I sit by the window reading your map of those streets —
seems strange our paths did not overlap on those streets.

Remember the wind, how it harried the trees
panicked leaves, made twigs snap on those streets?

I recall the slick smack of tires through puddles,
refused to look up at cars rolling past on those streets.

I watched my old tennis shoes, counted their steps —
echoes of heart-beats, their flat flapping slaps on those streets.

I tacked between sidewalks, keeping to shadows,
dodged lit entries like traps on those streets.

Moving cars, lighted buildings — no, I was not alone —
I did not hide sorrow, but sorrow hid me on those streets.

By the window, Halima reads, tracing the lines
between nowhere and back on those streets.

–Laura M Kaminski, (Halima bint Ayuba)

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Twilight

I will not apologize. My sorries and I didn’t-mean-tos have no place in your mind. I hope you will forget me. The tabloids and online press claim you have. I hope it’s true. Many say I am sad. Bitter, towards your new girl. But, the thing they have placed in the back of their minds, is that it was me, I, who kissed him. I took the risk. And sure, we were in love. Or maybe that was just an illusion. A mask we put on without even knowing. A way to get the tickets to sell faster. So that when all the teenage girls and their moms watched the movie, they would all think, “It’s not just a fantasy. They’re really dating.” And soon, fans believed that just like the movie, our love was eternal. But we are not immortal. And our love was never real. It was just an illusion, just a movie ticket, just something to occupy my thoughts. So I hope you have forgotten about me. Because I have forgotten about you.

Early Morning Treasures

There with the criss­cross veins
from thighs to daddy’s
too ­big jagged-edged
socks tucked into shoes
used to be white but smudged with
dry ­mud dry­ blood
caked into gum­-splattered cement
kicked up in your run for treasures
hidden in early morning trash bins
by the left side of the road
your nails coated with food scraps
found beneath the newspapers
last week digging
too late too late today
they’ve all been cleared out
other boys kicking up city dust
their once white shoes
pounding down on gum­-splattered cement
with early­ morning trash­bin treasures

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His Territory was Europe

His territory was Europe. Many assumed he was lucky, but it was work. The salesman spoke only English. He usually traveled town to town by train, and stayed in mid-level hotels filled with other businessmen. The salesman knew all the tricks of the trade, how to pass quickly through security in airports around the world, how to get into the best executive clubs at airports and hotels, how to upgrade, earn points and discounts, how to elude paying for meals, and what receipts to show accounting on return.

On this trip to Germany, he checked into the Frankfurt airport hotel, which was filled with traveling salesmen. He looked around the lounge and saw versions of salesmen, young and old, staring into flat beer at the end of another sweaty day. They moved silently room-to-room, expressionless, broad-faced smiles kept in reserve, saved for the customers. The hotel was a place of off-stage dimness where the businessmen practiced pitches, vigorous handshakes, and friendly backslaps.

The sales game was alchemy, turning customers into buyers. Sometimes the salesman was the information gatherer, and would start with, “I’m doing some research and wonder if you might have a moment to spare for me.” Or, “I’m trying to understand your industry and have a couple basic questions.” No matter what the response the research led to an observation, then to a product. Other times he came as a prophet of the future. “A paradigm shift,” a “new world” was coming. He had seen the future and it involves merchandise. Talking about the future was a particularly good tactic in Germany.

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