Dregs

Dec 31 2012

No one stops for directions

on the only highway here.

All signs point away,

arrow straight

two lanes

past the city limits.

As if stretched as thin as it gets,

pulled taut, across a thousand miles

of emptiness.

In the middle of nowhere

it’s easy to feel cut off

from everywhere else,

a small island of light

glowing

in the rear view mirror.

On a bad day

the produce section is pretty much emptied out.

Some hard Mexican tomatoes

depressingly pale,

illegal aliens

who should never have left.

California fruit, now bashed and bruised,

like a palooka boxer

paid to lose.

And onions, that once
were flushed with youth

now shrunken, smooshed.

As vulnerable as us

to a jack-knifed tractor trailer

white-out snow.

This life-line road

that brings everything

we once did ourselves

or did without.

A single day of grace

until the shelves

are picked-over bones

and we’re hoarding cabbages.

So I grabbed

a torn mesh bag,

Florida oranges

going bad.

Like landless Cubans

fleeing further north,

rotten sons

mixed-up with drugs, or guns

who had disappointed

proud Latino fathers.

When only the dregs are left

how much depends

on that long thin stretch

of asphalt.

On complexity, and interdependence.

On average men

stifling yawns,

resisting

heavy eyelids.

Another road-trip

into winter,

humming along
to good ole boys, singin' hurtin’ songs

in the southern drawl

of home.

 I must have picked a bad day for shopping. The produce section was rows of empty coolers and shelves:  some dejected lettuce, tomato rejects, fruit that had seen better days. Clearly, a truck hadn’t arrived. So the title is exactly where the poem began:  dregs indeed!

What a stark illustration of our vulnerability:  how we depend on complex systems; how high our expectations have become; how helpless we are to meet our own basic needs. And how quickly the illusion of abundance, of serene orderly civilization, comes crashing down.

The basic premise of the poem is true. We’re a long way from anywhere, and connected by a tenuous ribbon of asphalt, mostly just two thin lanes. (The gas supply is the same:  a single pipe, extending thousands of miles, that’s absolutely just-in-time --  interrupt it, and the furnace immediately dies, every house goes cold.) Most of out food comes from the south, or the west coast. In a way, we depend upon the kindness of strangers; even though they have no idea we exist, and we rarely – if ever – acknowledge them. Which is the part of the poem I like the best:  the mutual perplexity between north and south; the idea of foreignness and incongruity. I hope I was able to convey a sense of isolation and vulnerability.