We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is–if you’re
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it’s someone else’s brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, “No,
we’re not hiring today,” for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who’s not beside you or behind or
ahead because he’s home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you’re too young or too dumb,
not because you’re jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don’t know what work is.
In sir indian stam in ploaie/ la Ford Highland Park asteptam. Sa muncim./ Stii ce-i munca – daca esti/ destul de batran incat sa citesti asta, stii ce e/ munca, desi e posibil sa nu muncesti./ Acum vei fi ignorat. E vorba de asteptare,/ de felul cum te sprijini cand pe un picior, cand pe celalalt./ Despre cum se simte ploaia plapanda cazand ca ceata/ in parul tau, intunecandu-ti privirea/ pana cand crezi ca-l vezi pe fratele tau/ in fata ta, cu vreo zece pasi mai incolo./ Iti cureti ochelarii cu degetele/ si e fratele altcuiva acolo, fireste,/ mai putin lat in umeri decat/ al tau, dar la fel de cocosat, cu grimasa/ care nu-i ascunde incapatanarea,/ tristul refuz de a se lasa pe mainile/ ploii, ale orelor pierdute asteptand,/ certitudinii ca undeva in fata/ asteapta un om, care va spune:”Nu,/ astazi nu angajam pe nimeni”, din motive/ pe care el le vrea. Iti iubesti fratele,/ acum dintr-o data de-abia suporti/ dragostea pentru fratele tau, care te napadeste,/ pentru fratele tau, care nu-i nici langa, nici in spatele,/ nici in fata ta, pentru ca-i acasa incercand sa/ doarma, sa scape de un schimb de noapte mizerabil/ la volanul unui Cadillac, sa se poata trezi inainte de pranz pentru a studia limba germana./ Munceste opt ore pe noapte ca sa poata canta/ Wagner, opera pe care-o urasti cel mai mult, / cea mai proasta muzica vreodata compusa./ Cat timp a trecut de cand i-ai spus/ ca-l iubesti, de cand i-ai prins umerii lati,/ ti-ai deschis larg ochii si-ai spus acele cuvinte,/ poate ca i-ai sarutat si obrajii? Tu n-ai facut niciodata/ ceva atat de simplu, atat de evident,/ nu pentru ca ai fi prea tanar sau prost,/ prea gelos sau grobian,/ incapabil sa plangi in/ prezenta unui alt om, nu,/ ci doar pentru ca nu stii ce-i aia munca.
