Saturday

•

Disturbed by a sound I don't hear,
I rise like a swimmer to the surface of the light
where under a series of white ceilings
I have slept under

through the smudged window
to the smog-stained building across the street
I see it is not Richmond, Indiana,
or Lake Hiawatha, New Jersey
but Brooklyn, I guess.

Brooklyn, of the clanging trains,
Brooklyn, of Marx and Freud,
Brooklyn, of the neighborhood
inside my head.

I take a deep breath,
hold onto my dream,
something about the glint of a skyscraper
smashed by a plane hijacked by terrorists,

the gasp of the witnesses,
the roar of the flames,

only I am not on the F train as it happens,
as I was that September day,
but trapped with so many others
clawing and screaming, in a shopping mall underneath

when we are suddenly urged by voices familiar
and yet so strange to go this way, go that way,
as if by a rope of light, to what seems
like a miraculous opening in the rubble,
awed I am to climb a bloodstained ladder and see
though thousands died some of us are saved,

Always I am in the middle of some fantastic planet
when I realize I am supposed to be studying,
always I am in the depths of the stratosphere
when I realize there is a bill to pay,

Only after I climb up the flight of stairs
into a brilliant light where the skyscraper had been,
I realize there was no one else with me,
so where did the voices
and the rope of light come from

And why, when I emerged into the light
so thankfully, had they who saved my life
disappeared

Somehow amidst all this,
I need to find the stop button on my alarm clock,
the usual 6:30.

Somehow amidst all this
I need to make myself coffee, juice
and muffin, stumble out of bed.

A robin sings on a telephone wire.
The sun is busy peeking through the crazy quilt of buildings.
Already people are going to work.
in the rattletrap morning.

Brooklyn, where I work as a court reporter,
where it is cold out this winter
and I have to take
the train to where I will be this evening—

the lurch of the subway,
the doors opening and closing
all the way to Borough Hall,
the glimpse of the light
as I climb up the subway stairs,

the zone of the office,
the rhythm of the coffeebreaks,
the pounding of the telephones,
the tasks scurrying you every which way,

the coalition meeting
I suddenly remember
at 6:30 tonight I have already
gone to,

so how could it be Friday,
if I already went to it
with a burst of clarity,
I suddenly think,

Unless it is Saturday,
not Friday—
last night
being Friday,

the vague sense of uneasiness dissipates,
at the same time as a pressure
mysteriously grows
on the back of my head.

The banner on the back of the stage
as I sat in a hard metal chair
—I remember it now—

but what banner was it?
A banner red,
red with gold letters.
But what injustice did it thunder against?

Aparthead?
Nuclear war?
The Iraq war.
.
What decade was it?
Sixites?
Seventies?
Eighties?

Nineties?
Gorbachev collapsed.
The Soviet Union is kaput.
US is the kingpin.

New World order, what a laugh.
Ask the people of Latin America.
Iraq. Imperialist War.
US out of Iraq;
That was it.

Maybe it is Saturday, not Friday,
the subway train rattling on
to the next stop,
the moon over the luncheonette,

I worked all day at the office
on Friday
and then went to a coalition meeting
with a friend.

The usual speeches,
the usual fists in the face of injustice,
but the courage and the beauty
and the grittiness, don't forget.

A man had a mole on his forehead.
A giant banner Beat Back Bush
stood behind him,
Not being an organizer,
I volunteered for tabling.

The ride home on the F Train was horrible.
By leaving early I got home
just in time to watch
the TV show Law and Order with Beth.

It is not Friday,
how could it be Friday,
if the coalition meeting
I have gone to already—

my heart leaps up
like a bird in its cage
at the glorious news,

even as my head,
my head sinks inexplicably deeper
into the depths
of the luxurious bed,

It is Saturday, not Friday,
oh, light, Brooklyn of the white ceiling,
light on the skin of the water
that summer snorkeling off the coast of Mexico,
as I moved with my flippers
beneath it all like a fish,

it is Saturday, not Friday—
what a vacation that was,
but I don't remember doing the laundry last night,
I think with a twinge --but wait, strike that,
suddenly I remember
I did—

the light flooding the faces
at the coalition meeting,
Bobby, Behrouz, Bill, Elena ,
No war in Middle East, Not In Our Name—

Justice, Not Vengeance,
maybe a workers police action
to sink that bastard,
but no imperialist war

in spite of, or because of the nightmare,
the terror and smoke, in spite of, or because of
the body parts splayed everywhere
on the floor of the mall in the dream

but were they ghost or human voices,
guiding us through the mall
as the people screamed in terror,
was it the road to safety or the road to freedom
as the voices clearly said this way,

turning the final corner with the others
and scrambling up a blood-splattered ladder
into the brilliant light
like a groundhog , stunned,
peering out of his hole in the earth

wondering what the dream means, awakening,
happy I am alive to see another day
also, sad, I want to keep climbing up the ladder
so I can see how the dream ends

suddenly I realize those voices guiding us in the darkness
were not ghosts but Bobby, Behrouz and Elena,
from the coalition meeting now in the tunnel
curiously leading the way

Why does this country support dictators
Why can't we find Bin Ladin and Company,
Susan says the left is soft on terrorism,
but didn't US. imperialism back
Bin Ladin in Afghanistan
before he turned on us,
a bird sings in the sycamore trees

It is Saturday, not Friday,
love of my life,
brilliance of the light,
richness of the dark,

the relief of knowing
you have done the laundry,
the swimming in the ocean
with the freedom of a fish,

it is Saturday, not Friday,
coalition meeting
of the struggle continued,
light on the white ceiling
as I gaze out the smudged window,

bird on the telephone wire,
as if in this life of
craziness and counterveiling factors
a state of grace is possible,

if we would only
learn to balance
on our own wire,
if we would persist,

through the darkness
and the light,
through the wind
and the rain,

maybe I should bring
an umbrella tomorrow,
where do superheroes go
to recharge,
why are the lives of working people
so hard,
where does the bird in the backyard go
when it rains --

symphony of no
alarm clock ringing,
festival of no
boss screaming

everything emptiness
except the rise and fall
of Beth
breathing --

silence
in the cable box,
newspaper
on the table top,

rosemary
in the flower pot,,

people in the dream rubble,
people in the dream rubble

still whispering
in my head --

it is Saturday,
not Friday,
it is Saturday,
not Friday,

it is Saturday
not Friday,

I can sleep.