JILL CRAMMOND
THE HAVES AND THE HAVE-NOTS:
NEW MILLENNIUM, SUBURB STYLE
One day, the strong men of the have-nots,
the copier technicians, furnace repairmen,
firefighters and mechanics,
are going to pick up their mid-size SUVs,
their Pathfinders, 4-Runners, Ford Pick-Ups,
carry them across town
to the have’s freshly sealed driveways,
drop their sensible loads,
park them right next to the Hummers, the Suburbans,
the Sequoia’s, and see what makes a gas guzzler shudder.
Later that same day the have-not wives will pull
their own fast one. Pull on their Wal-Mart camouflage
capris, sneak into the have’s cavernous kitchens,
tiptoe across imported Italian tile, turn the shining
knobs on the convection ovens, and cook the sushi.
While the have-not kids keep the haves occupied
with brown paper sacks of contraband,
MSG, pure sugar, fake orange cheese,
the wives will pour the bottled water
down stainless drains, replace it with tap,
leave sticky-note calling cards:
Come on over sometime.
SYMBOL OF A STORM
They call me a symbol, a snapshot of despair
since it was my picture, me and my kids
putting a face to disaster. Ravaged, distressed,
brows furrowed, nostrils flared. We were just waiting
for a bus, looking for a dry ride out of a watery grave.
In the months leading up to it,
after the seventh baby,
after the oldest was hauled off to juvenile hall,
I had been wracking my brain, trying to come up with a way
to make my mark.
With no job, no husband, half my children
housed elsewhere, I was no super mom.
I considered fame as most tattooed mother, blue-black lines
following the rivers and gulleys of my used body, but hey,
I have spent days slick with labor. Who needs more pain?
I had just made up my mind, cast my net wide
and decided to become the most traveled mama
when Mother Nature came rushing in.
Didn’t even knock, that grande dame, just rose
and rose like the sun gone wild, until she knocked
our door down, washed away our welcome mat.
In with Mother Nature’s bastard son, Flood,
came her wayward daughter, Katrina, and the dark
stench of lives lost, the shriek of families uprooted.
Don’t weep for me yet.
My children, little brown fish, they had a wild ride
up and down the rooftops. The stinking wet finger
of a levee wave flicked us atop our packed suitcases
until we three were soggy genies, floating above tragedy.
The people in that photo? They’re the old symbols of us.
HOW TO MARY OLIVER THE TREES: TWO HAIKU
One red maple tree
stands alone among late green.
It’s good to be you.
Three gray squirrels fight;
an acorn, a girl, a nest?
one red leaf stops them.