It was warm and steamy in the Village Coffee House this evening. The aroma from various exotic blends of coffees mixed with the smell of freshly baked muffins. The Folksinger was doing a particularly poignant interpretation of “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s my Brother.” The Older Bald Guy wryly thought about how the song fit his present mood.
Since his return to Canada some time ago, he had become increasingly troubled by the plight of the homeless, and by the subculture of the street. He was attempting to capture some of his impressions in a series of poems collected under the broad heading of “Anger in the Street.”
The Resident Radical was in the middle of a diatribe concerning news that the federal government was about to pump millions of tax dollars into propping up the franchises of Canadian NHL teams.
“The Proletariat must now throw off the yoke of big business bottom liners and their government lackies,” he ranted. He added that the crisis of the medical emergency services, and the situation of the homeless were much more worthy recipients of tax dollars than millionaire sportsmen and wealthy club owners.
The Poet-in-the-Beret agreed, mentioning the recent report that the Human Resources department had no paper trail at all for billions in grants for makework projects. It appeared as though government had lost touch with the electorate.
The OBG listened, and thought about the “long, long road” that Canadians had stretching before them into the 21st century. He wondered if there could ever be a government “of the people, for the people.” He glanced at his steno pad, upon which the next instalment in the “Anger in the Street” series was scrawled.
The Teacher
Another when,
and he ruled his Eng Lit classes
from the comfort
of tweeds well worn.
Today, though,
stumps of pencils, flags of paper,
were now secreted willy-nilly
deep in the rags
that called him home.
Teaching when and where he could,
urchin and ancient alike
found benefit
from his memory of a life
before his Fall.
A name spelled here,
welfare application there,
laboured reading
of gutter-trapped headlines;
the street seemed less ugly
for his students.
Shorn heads and hard booted,
the Furies fell upon him
one cold night
for possession of his half bottle
of fortified wine.
Surrounded by his small blank bits of paper,
and short, sharpened stubs of pencils,
his body resembled nothing so much
as an incomplete jigsaw puzzle,
its meaning not quite clear.
Since his return to Canada some time ago, he had become increasingly troubled by the plight of the homeless, and by the subculture of the street. He was attempting to capture some of his impressions in a series of poems collected under the broad heading of “Anger in the Street.”
The Resident Radical was in the middle of a diatribe concerning news that the federal government was about to pump millions of tax dollars into propping up the franchises of Canadian NHL teams.
“The Proletariat must now throw off the yoke of big business bottom liners and their government lackies,” he ranted. He added that the crisis of the medical emergency services, and the situation of the homeless were much more worthy recipients of tax dollars than millionaire sportsmen and wealthy club owners.
The Poet-in-the-Beret agreed, mentioning the recent report that the Human Resources department had no paper trail at all for billions in grants for makework projects. It appeared as though government had lost touch with the electorate.
The OBG listened, and thought about the “long, long road” that Canadians had stretching before them into the 21st century. He wondered if there could ever be a government “of the people, for the people.” He glanced at his steno pad, upon which the next instalment in the “Anger in the Street” series was scrawled.
The Teacher
Another when,
and he ruled his Eng Lit classes
from the comfort
of tweeds well worn.
Today, though,
stumps of pencils, flags of paper,
were now secreted willy-nilly
deep in the rags
that called him home.
Teaching when and where he could,
urchin and ancient alike
found benefit
from his memory of a life
before his Fall.
A name spelled here,
welfare application there,
laboured reading
of gutter-trapped headlines;
the street seemed less ugly
for his students.
Shorn heads and hard booted,
the Furies fell upon him
one cold night
for possession of his half bottle
of fortified wine.
Surrounded by his small blank bits of paper,
and short, sharpened stubs of pencils,
his body resembled nothing so much
as an incomplete jigsaw puzzle,
its meaning not quite clear.
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