The Shunned

Oct 10 2015

They lurk

behind the low-rise building

by the windowless door,

banished

from public view.

The kind

that only opens from the inside;

heavy steel

in case of fire.

Beside a treeless lot

where office workers park their cars

and zillion watt lights

burn like bleach

all night long;

a still-life

of the industrial age.

Old Toyotas and rusting pick-ups

that today, look oddly alike,

softened

by a blanket of snow,

plopping down

in big wet clumps.

One of those self-locking doors,

propped open

by an annual report.

Where they hunker down

in unbuttoned coats

against the cold,

cupping cigarettes

wreathed in smoke.

In the early dark

burning points flare

with each deep draw,

lighting-up

puffing on.

Coffee cups

are warmly clutched

in one cold hand,

stubs crushed

in the slurry of slush

wicking-up long pants;

sodden shoes

cuffs streaked with salt.

They lean …hunch …pace

looking wan …tired …grey,

stoic, in the endless wait

for 5 pm.

Exiled to this wilderness

they gather together

for moral support,

the office lepers

who should know better

but continue to smoke.

But ohhhh

the nicotine jolt

to a hungering brain,

the sacrament

of cured tobacco

they celebrate.

With fellow travellers

who also believe

in the sacred leaf;

the daily communion

of the shunned and the scorned,

the newly converted

the bred and born.

Who can tell one another

without a word.

By the yellow stigmata

on their finger-tips,

the stink of smoke

in hair and skin.

That sticks, like mortal sin

in the pitiless eyes

of the righteous.

I guess I'm one of the unforgiving righteous: sternly judging the exiled smokers with a mix of pity, contempt, and smug superiority. It's not winter now; but I think the bleakness of one of those dull winter days when the humidity cuts to the bone is a beautiful fit for the subject. "Pathetic fallacy", I think it's called.

The idea came from this poem -- written by Matthew Dickman and called Minimum Wage -- published in the recent New Yorker (Oct 12 2015). I glanced at the first few lines, and the image that informs my poem immediately came to mind. That was before I got to the 6th line, so I visualized office workers instead of short order cooks. Probably because it's very close to something I recently saw. Anyway, here's how it opens:

My mother and I are on the front porch lighting

each other’s cigarettes

as if we were on a ten-minute break from our jobs

at being a mother and son,

just ten minutes to steal a moment

of freedom before clocking back in,

before putting the aprons back on, the paper hats,

washing our hands twice and then standing

behind the counter again,

hoping for tips, hoping the customers

will be nice, will say some kind word, the cool

front yard before us and the dogs

in the back yard shitting on everything  ...

Once again, I've fallen into religious imagery. I don't think it's because I'm an atheist who feels strongly about it and therefore has some hidden agenda. I think it was simply the accident of choosing banished right there at the start. And then, once I came up with lepers, I couldn't resist: the religious imagery was too much fun! Not to mention that the self-righteousness that goes along with piety let me poke fun at myself.

I remember reading about a foreign visitor to Canada, in the early days of non-smoking offices, commenting in a bewildered way about all the street-walkers congregating around the entrances of public buildings. His only explanation for these exiled smokers was that they must be prostitutes: perhaps it would have been more fun if I'd gone in that direction instead!