Other Poems by:

George Wallace

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daydreaming in connecticut i won't go into it, strange, it is my usual nightmare --
godzilla and me arms swinging everywhere when in walks a delivery boy from subway
with a tray of sandwiches and my literature professor says what would jack kerouac 
find to write about that, mr wallace? mr wallace? and i'm thinking platter? platter? 
platter? is this the word i was looking for? a tray full of dull american hero sandwiches 
coldcut lips tomato tongues lolling out sad american sandwiches some with lettuce 
some with mayo and mustard no respectable deli in new york would make sandwiches 
like these! white bread stomachs ripped open flattened out sliced with american cheese 
and i'm thinking where did the sandwiches come from? who made them? hispanic men
and women of course with soft voices and softer hands cornmeal women tequila men 
workers documented and undocumented making big bland american heros their eyes 
veiled against the northern gloom their eyes big round brown and polite dreaming of 
big american paychecks, hopeful, ahh yes, american money to bring home to brown 
babies and barefoot daughters, soft-spoken women and their men who are not yet home 
from a day's work riding lawn mowers or shovelling snow, waiting on the blueblack street
corner every morning while carpentry crews drive past, men with hands like tortillas who
along the way home after work maybe stopped in to see their friends in a bar that only they 
know of, a dark crowded unfriendly bar that was inhabited by crews of irish polish italian 
greek immigrants once, a rusty working man's milltown dive, jackets zipped up against 
the cold, railway porters tobacco pickers millworkers immigrants of a long ago dawn 
trying to make a buck trying to make ends meet -- shady dives made over for latinos 
half empty raw whiskey and swinging stringed bulbs, a filthy light suffusing everything, 
flypaper strips punched out plywood year old calendars rough talking mamas and men 
in overcoats by the door shoulders haunched sad old halo of hair wreathed in snowflakes -- 
a silence of drinking men and their misunderstood anger broken by the occasional shout 
of enthusiastic words -- explosion of laughter, sudden genial commotion! subterranean 
workers with grass stains and holes in their pants, bleach and powder of illegal backroom 
midnight bakeries -- wrestling their own great american nightmare daydream godzilla 
**Copyright 2007, George Wallace
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