In transit

Greetings,

mid-day is the least busy Time
frisked down by some guys at security -
they may have been from Ghana or Somalia or Ethiopia
but I suspect Congo or Zaire as their dialect was different enough
they are young and laughing at the never ending task
waving detector wands over people
and the one doing me is young & angry & exasperated at having to do anything
so far removed from his land, his place, his family, his brothers and sisters carrying water
on their heads in cracked plastic pails from deep distant wells
drying in the heat of perpetual summer’s drought

his tie is askew and his white shirt
against his thin black neck
is frayed and his blue blazer looks severely uncomfortable on his frame

and the Asian woman says the other woman screening bags doesn’t know
what a harmonica is so I pull it out of the small pocket in the key of D
ask if she would like me to play her something
she says yes so I play a few blues riffles on automatic pilot

she laughs as passengers flow around
mothers manage baby carriages - three tired tiered birthday cakes with burning candles
their long lonely joyful responsibilities
and then the music stops
I put the harmonica back in the bag and take the escalator down

to the train watching Hispanic woman mop the floor as
women in furs and designer jewelry wait impatiently
for the train to Concourse ABC...
the train zooms through tunnels as through amusement parks rides
free with silver spinning windmills in cement walls whirling the wind tunnels

people get off and on
a White woman with her Black husband holds her child
his black curly hair all ringed around small ears
husband looks bored and she is not sure in her heart
if she made the right decision
they are flying east to see her folks
he never smiles and they share no words

Peace