It was this past winter, maybe even
around Christmas time. I was working late.
It had already gotten dark, and
I was on my way to the pop machine,
bopping downstairs, humming under my breath,
loose change jingling in hand, thinking only of
the impending sugar rush and privately bemoaning
the bygone days of 50¢ cans. I hit the ground floor
and noticed idly out of the corner of my eye
a man standing under the stairs, his back to me.
He was rocking, arms up, and I don’t know why,
but I thought, without missing a beat,
He’s on his cell phone. It sounded like
he was singing-- maybe singing his daughter to sleep.
How sweet, a lullaby.
It’s amazing what consciousness coughs up
and we are the ones who are lulled;
what contexts the practical brain tries to shoehorn
perception into. I don’t know this man or what he might do.
I don’t know that he has a child, or that,
if he does, he’s the type of father who sings.
When I passed him a second time, soda can
replacing the coins in my hand, it hit me.
I didn’t know this man, but I’d seen him around.
His name was Ahmad or Achmed or Habib,
and he wasn’t singing or talking on the phone
but praying. Under the stairs.
I hurried past, not wanting to interrupt.
Maybe he wanted privacy. Maybe he didn’t want
to make a fuss, or maybe he was shy.
Maybe he was afraid of people staring, or getting hauled
by the beard into a Homeland Security prison.
But next time I hear some obnoxious fundie
bitch about not being allowed to pray in school or post
the Ten Commandments in courthouses
I’m going to tell them to get their asses under the stairs
and show some real devotion.
There’s a notion.
Please tell me what you think
Sorry, you cannot respond to an archived poemReviews
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Hello pie, and thank you for posting another wonderful poem for me to enjoy.
The first stanza has a great feel to it, and really throws me back to all the times I had to be at work or in school late, and a little nicety like a can of soda was a comfort. Your tone captures the nonchalance of a routine at work, and the dull surprise that comes from seeing something unexpected. Your reaction gives me the mental image of a raised eyebrow haha.
However, for as sweet and comfortable as the first three stanzas are, the venom really flows at the tail end of this. And I like it. A lot. Fundies usually treat an irreligious swine such as myself as if I have a target on my back, so I definitely smirked at the very end. It seems they COULD learn a thing or two about devotion.
My only suggestion, and and this may have been an honest typo on your part and not a style issue, is the addition of a verb in the second to last stanza. It currently reads
"But next time I hear some obnoxious fundie bitch/about not being allowed to pray in school or post"
It seems to me that there should be some sort of speaking verb in there. But that's just me. Either way, this was a fantastic read.
-Zig
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I read this without logging in,and i knew i had to leave a comment. The picture you drew with your words left me speechless. There was something powerful about a man praying/worshiping under the stairs. I suppose its the dedication of the man that has left me thinking about this poem long after reading it. Its the simplicity of the act, the choice of place and the contrast to the 'fundie bitch' made this work for me.
Many make a show of their faith, but some are content to do so under the stairs. Many complain for the lack of venue, but some practice their prayer anywhere. Though i am not a person of faith, the image that this poem left me is profound. It made me respect the beauty of those who practice their faith in sincerity.
-iphios -
New departure?
Hey Cutie. This is great. It has a new feel for one of yours. Something direct, Ochs or Buk maybe. I like it. >W<
Zigfiend
May 26, 2008
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