BY CRAIG KIRCHNER
Copyright is held by the author.
Amtrak
Work Ethic and I
are at a crowded Penn Station,
standing in front of the Big Board,
waiting for our track to flash.
A few move up — Boston, Trenton —
but the crowd doesn’t move.
They are all waiting for our train,
and it’s late.
W.E. kills the time
by pretending he’s an alien
taking reconnaissance notes.
They are upright with pink epidermis,
one head, and two legs.
Left appendages pull fairly large black,
box-like tails on wheels
and the right pushes small black boxes
to the side of the head.
Only a very few have had these tails removed,
and almost all talk to themselves.
Finally — Washington: track 15 —
and the bustle starts to the escalator.
We rush a bit to stand and wait,
but now we are focused,
we all know where we’re going.
I lose W.E. in the crowd and think
about his surveillant scribble.
All seem motivated by some God-like force
to flee at the same time,
but move poorly as a unit,
like a funnel full of roaches.
I’m not worried, he gets lost quite often,
but always resurfaces.
He’s fun to hang with and doesn’t drink much.
He travels light and takes good notes.
Late Arrival
Step to the side for screening sir,
it’s necessary with late arrivals.
Empty your pockets,
take off your jacket,
sit over there.
Big boned and brusque,
like the nurse in “Cuckoo’s Nest”,
points to a wooden bench.
Sitting upright I think how I have not
been able to write anything of 9/11,
and it’s over twenty five years now,
and then a short squat man, with an accent
and a wand, tells me to stand up,
wands me twice —
legs, arms, front, back —
actually, tugs at my belt buckle
like there might be something behind it.
Take off your shoes,
well, the right brown suede was knotted
and I honest to God couldn’t get it off.
I have trouble masking contempt and frustration,
and Mr. Shortsquat picks up on it and says he’s sorry,
just as I get the shoe off.
Bignurse is going through the ghurka bag
and Shortsquat is actually holding my shoe
up about forehead high and peering inside.
. . . and he’s sorry.
I wouldn’t scrutinize his shoes like that
for six figures . . . and he’s sorry.
I close my eyes as BigNurse
with a Sieg Heil motion
directs me back to the end of the boarding line.
I think about my window seat,
the layer of smog over LA,
the unbreathable air of falling towers,
the incredible mountains and green grid
between San Jose and LAX
assuming the plane don’t crash.
***
Craig Kirchner loves the aesthetics of writing, has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels, and has been nominated three times for a Pushcart. He has been published in Chiron Review, CommuterLit, Main Street Rag and dozens of others. He houses 500 books in his office and about 400 poems on a laptop; these words help keep him straight. Craig has an interview up at Spillword and can be found on Bluesky.