for your safety please hold on

the last thing they asked for was my tears.
in fact, they
never even got that far.

Sheila didn’t have it in her plans for this to happen,
and Reg likely had a heart murmur just entertaining the notion.

but there I was,
hastings and main, my familiar corner
about ninety odd minutes
into the new day.

and there I was,
hastily entertaining, my familiar circumstance
about how to connect with those
I’ve been told aren’t the same.

the last thing they asked for was my tears,
in fact, they
don’t ever want them.

Graham just finished a shift on the picket line
and then the beer parlor. or maybe it was just the street.

Scruffy just finished yelling fuck you at his street urchin
acquaintances
he was raped by two men in his youth.

but there I was,
haste and mes mains in my pockets
about to embark on the
proletariat chariot.

and there I was,
hoisted and maintained as an equal
about as equal as one gets
when dressed for a club.

I didn’t want to cry, and I didn’t let myself
even after the poverty-stricken aboriginals
left their seats for an elderly old white man
in the front.

and I knew, and kept repeating,
they don’t want my tears.

but what else can I offer?

Graham, the one who has experienced
all dependency issues of the illicit variety
and who says his old lady figured he’d be in jail by now
was going to make it home safe,
if I could help guide him.

Kyall, the one who has experienced
all guilt issues of the white privileged variety
and who says he’s trying not to feel vain about this now
was going to make it home safe,
if I could allow him.

the last thing they wanted, asked for or needed
was my tears.

but what else?
what else?

I’m desperate to assist.
and just finding my way home
isn’t enough.