A
Poem in the
Before Choice Disturbs collection
(for F.B.)
Seeing you from the
tram
today as you made your way
along the
grass and
sidewalk
one thing made itself
perfectly clear.
You look like
white trash. You have
the long, oiled
hair-- flung far back,
the
meandering rolling walk,
the
shaven, yet still
cragged and
sagging face.
Even your clothes fit
the bill, like some kind
of uniform or costume.
I never saw it before. Maybe
it's only seen from far away?
So, I get off the tram and jog up to
where you are. The illusion is unbroken,
you've wandered off the trailer park,
out of the mines.
Now I've no choice but to
see you this way. Even when you
don your sportcoat, surrounded by
those prepubescent girls you
teach; deep in your
To Sir, With Love routine.
You'll always be white trash to me,
and that's the way, I think, you like it.