WORKING CLASS, EBB AND FLOW

WORKING CLASS, EBB AND FLOW

by Robin Shwedo

©Robin Shwedo, 2018



I



For years,

my ex and I lived for the weekends.

Unemployed for months,

living in the house next door

to his parents,

a house they'd inherited,

he'd finally found work,

bringing in a weekly paycheck –

pittance, though it was –

when combined with

food stamps and

no rent,

it paid the bills, if just barely.

Friday,

after work,

we'd gather the kids,

pile into the car,

and go to the nearest Albertson's,

a farther drive than

the Winn Dixie,

but newer and cleaner.

After the weekly shopping,

reminiscent of going to the A&P

as a child

with my parents on Fridays,

we'd stop by the neighborhood Wendy's

for dinner,

always a treat.

Burgers, fries and sodas,

a big deal for the kids,

and no cooking or clean up,

a big deal for me.

Every week,

we'd see the same families,

kids in tow,

having Friday fast food dinners,

feeling comfortable enough

for some conversations.

“How was your week?”

“Great, and yours?”

When one family's boys spent too much time

in the rest room,

Mom'd tell the youngest,

“Go tell your brothers

to quit homesteading

if they want to eat.”

We all laughed at that.

Now, years later,

if someone takes too long,

the family code is that

they're homesteading.

We'd watch the sky

across the street

darken in the winter,

stay light in the summer

as we ate.

Then, finished,

we'd tell the other two or three families

we'd see them

the next week.

Gradually,

kids grew, jobs and hours changed,

Albertsons built a new, closer store

that took us closer

to other fast food places.

I wonder about the homesteaders.



II



His parents split,

and the rental became

his mom's home.

She lived with us for a month or so;

you relegated her,

in her own house,

to the utility room.

Finally,

I told her to come inside.

You lost a job,

found another,

lost it,

found another.

In desperation,

I found and took a job

with a future,

and, after a contentious weekend,

moved us out of your mom's house.

She mourned,

wanting us back.

But six people in a 2-bedroom place

was rough.

The rent in the new place

took a third of our income,

then went up more.

I lost my job,

in part because

you were too proud to do

“women's work,”

laundry,

dishes,

cleaning

while I worked full time

and you stayed home,

watching TV and the kids.

A job

revolving around

physical work

required more than three hours of sleep a night,

and catching up on weekends.

You then took a job,

while I stayed home.



III



Three moves later,

you leave to find work out of state,

leaving me to care for four kids.

I find work

while going to school full time.

We move,

and you come back.

You promised to change,

and found a job

you loved

(security in a topless bar).

You spent weekends at

the flea market,

and took a job there,

working with a friend,

running errands while he ran the booth,

helping him sell radios and such.

The security job failed,

and the flea market was your main job,

paid $100 a week.

Sy (“Hi-Fi Sy”) offered our oldest a job –

his first –

making almost as much

as you on weekends.

Finally, the stress of

work,

kids,

not enough money,

too much rent,

and other nonsense too its toll.

We had to move again.



IV



Every place we looked,

they'd rent to me,

even with four kids and a dog.

But you'd somehow jinx the deal.

Finally, you checked with a rental place.

“Sorry, you don't make enough,”

the man told you.

Our income was $20 a month shy

of 1/3 the rent,

which meant they wouldn't

rent to you.

The next day,

I took off from both jobs and school,

went to the rental agency

and fast-talked the same man

into handing me keys

to two houses.

“Take your pick,” he told me.

I picked one,

paid the rent and deposit,

and had us in the next day.

You lost,

found,

lost,

found

several dead-end jobs,

finally finding one you loved

only when I'd

asked you to leave.

With your own place to rent –

a cheap efficiency –

you made do.

I took a job driving cab,

took a few days off

when you died –

the job had no health insurance,

which meant you neglected your health –

then worked hard,

long,

12-hour days.

Met another driver

who knew how to treat a lady.

He'd nursed his late wife,

a waitress in several diners,

when her cancer showed up,

was cured,

then came back.

A man who'll care for

a dying wife

is a real man.

We married eight years after her death,

three years after my divorce,

and your death.

We both worked,

then had to quit

when our eyesight

started to fail.

I cared for him

as he'd cared for her

during his final years.



V



Working class life

is so much harder than

life for the rich.

The hours are long,

the pay is crap,

the rents are high,

the little bit of Obamacare

is being pulled away

by the obscenely rich,

making health care hard to come by.

It's the working poor's work

that has built up the rich,

built on our backs,

giving them their life

as they pull aways ours.

Someday –

probably soon –

the revolution will knock

the crap out of those rich who don't care.

Be forewarned.



This is a newer poem (written 6/17/18 – 6/18/18) from an upcoming book titled Working Class Poems, which is looking for a publisher.

EVEN IN DESOLATION

EVEN IN DESOLATION

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Even in desolation,

I know there’s life.

In the dust bowl of my emotions,

where all my tears have burned

the flowering vegetation off

and made a mockery of joy,

is the whoosh of wind

blowing, dancing, moving and pulsing

in the dusty

gritty storm.

My entire being feels picked clean

like the skeletal remains of

a buffalo left to die in the desert;

the sensation is wholly complete,

leaving me completely disconnected.

My withered spirit craves

water,

food,

colors of the spectrum.

And yet,

even in desolation,

I know that there is life.



This is part of my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is currently looking for a publishing home.

Politics

POLITICS

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2015, 2016



I like my morning coffee light

with a sweet roll on the side.

I'd take my whisky sour

but I never want to hide.

There's way too much duplicity

to let the bullshit slide,

Especially with the trash-talkers

trying to take us for a ride.



The first four lines were written a while back, with the remainder written the following year. It's part of a growing collection titled Painted Words.

BIKE RIDE, JULY 1

BIKE RIDE, JULY 1

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2017



I'd been a runner for years

until the remnants of an old injury

side-tracked me with pain.

It wasn't so much the day-to-day stuff that hurt,

more like the pounding-on-pavement

that aggravated it.

But there it was:

my bike,

taking up space

and calling to me.

Ride, it called.

So I did.



The first day of the second half of the year

fell on a Saturday.

Running clothes on

(still a runner),

I peddle down the driveway

and head for my running-route, cross-country.

The nearby stables,

smelling of horses,

sweet hay,

and manure,

went by quicker than I'm used to,

while the smells and sounds

fill the air.

Several horses whinny,

and a radio fills in the void

between chatter

as two women clean the stable,

another grooms a horse.

Keith Urban finishes a song,

and Dolly Parton begins

as I ride out of earshot.

Across the three-lane avenue –

one lane in either direction,

separated by a turn lane –

I continue cross-country.

There's a spot

just past a moved-in house on the left,

a canal for rain over-flow and town houses on the right,

just past where the woods begin,

that I can feel loved-ones.

That may seem strange,

but it always had a sense of mystery at this spot,

a place reminiscent of the woods

my grandmother and I passed by several times,

a place that seemed to spark

Grandma's imagination.

“Did I ever tell you about the time...,” she'd begin.

And so I think of Grandma as I ride through here.

I've since begun thinking of others,

dead and gone,

but not forgotten

by any stretch,

as I pass by.



Back on the three-lane avenue,

I pass the front of the town houses

with their blooming Hibiscus shrubs

in yellow,

pink,

and red

along the sidewalk.

One of the townhouses

sports a couple of neon signs

on the porch facing the sidewalk,

an older couple sitting under the signs

while drinking coffee

and talking.



I continue on my ride,

lost in my thoughts,

waiting for the time

I can run,

but enjoying the scenery

all the same.



Written on July 1, 2017. This is part of a growing collection, titled Poetry for My Mother, and is a good partner to my poem titled Running.

Morning Walk, Misty Day

Morning Walk, Misty Day

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2014



Heading out for a morning walk on a misty day,

beginning of the new year,

the thought crosses my mind to stay inside.

There's a fine mist going on from the grey skies

and there's a slight chill to the air.

Any other day, I'd think cold,

but since there's been a recent record freeze nation-wide,

it really isn't bad cold.

Grey hoodie zip-up sweatshirt, check,

long black pants, check,running shoes, check.Past several houses and I'm in the park,

turquoise shoes getting muddy

on the damp dirt path.

Somewhere nearby is a

rhythmic thump-thump-thump

of heavy equipment.

Finally spot city trucks,

working in the mist to

spruce up the park –

horse trails,

little league baseball fields,

life in a small town.

Dirt, split-rail fence, trees,

all various shades of brown,

held up by green grass,

capped by grey skies.

Nearby stable, red paint peeling in spots,

horses outside in the fields,

breakfasting on hay and water

in the mist

while the two women who work the stable,

one, the owner, the other, a friend,

muck out stalls,

dumping soiled offerings in a fence-in pile

to be carted off later,

then replacing it with fresh woodchips,

putting fresh oats and water in each stall

before bringing the horses, now wet,

back in to be dried, brushed, and put back in stalls.

A radio in the tack room plays a country station;

Dolly Parton's melodious voice travels across the mist

like a lemon-light beam, which drifts off as I head away.

To the right is a stand of cyprus trees,

looking like pine trees turning brown, losing needles.

The tan leaves mingle with the dark brown muddle path.



Just before crossing the wet street,

I hit the large button that switches on

the yellow caution – pedestrian crossing light.

The path – really a short dirt road – is equally muddy,

though lightly, mistily so.

In one of the townhouses that backs against

the drainage ditch next to the road

the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree

show through the partially open curtains.First thought: Do they realize it's January 9? Tree should be down already.

Who am I to say what's right,

what's wrong

in other people's lives?

Besides, the lights are cheery in the dreary misty mist.

A pale yellow box truck passes on the paved street ahead,

temporarily making a flash of color.

Finally,

I turn back,

pass the twinkling Christmas lights,

hit the flashing-caustion-pedestrian-crossing-light button,

see the barn, horses being brought inside,

the country DJ saying rain, all day,

hear the thump-thump-thump of the city trucks,

before unlocking the front door,

seeing two sleeping cats

and grab a cup of coffee.



Written on January 9, 2014 after a walk. I then sent a copy to my mother, who was in bad health. This poem is part of a new book of poetry tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.

IMAGINE MY SURPRISE

IMAGINE MY SURPRISE

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



Surprise me.

Not that you haven’t already.

The day we met,

I unintentionally stepped on feet;

you set me straight.

I expected an explosive barrage of rage;

it was not to be.

I kept my distance,

not knowing what to expect.

Imagine my surprise

when friendship developed.

We’d meet,

our paths crossing,

and always,

always

you offered your friendship,

yourself,

nothing less.

Times, too many to count,

that you picked up the pieces

of my life,

my heart,

and never once asked in return,

can not be ignored

or forgotten.

There came a time

when I thought someone else would do;

I saw you less as I tried

to make it work.

When he left,

shattering my heart into so many pieces,

you were there,

soothing wounds I swore would never heal.

Imagine my surprise.

It seems amazing that

the one who was “only” a friend,

the one who I never meant to hurt

and did

may very well be

the one who could make me the happiest,

there all the time.

Imagine my surprise.



If we're lucky, we all run into people who surprise us in a good way.

This is from my collection titled Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.

REJECTION

REJECTION

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 1995



The day I dyed my hair blue,

I was asked “why?” more than once.

Always, I’d answer, “Felt like it.”

Of course, it’s much more complex,

but what it boils down to is this:

Rejection.

Being way different is hard enough,

the biggest fear being that

No One Will Like You.

However,

give someone something they can latch onto:

Dye your hair blue,

wear combat boots with your dress,

and people can immediately give you a reason

you can laugh at.

It’s never you they’re rejecting you for,

it’s the fact that you have blue hair.

At least this way,

you can always pretend

“When the dye wears off,

then they’ll accept me.”

It’s easier to be rejected for deliberate ways

then things you can’t change.



This was written shortly after the second or third time I'd dyed the ends of my hair midnight blue. The first time, my oldest son had brought home some blue hair dye from the Ybor City section of Tampa, Florida, then decided he wasn't going to use the dye.

"You use it, Mom," he told me. "Don't worry, it washes out after a week or two."

At the time, I'd had a guy whose path crossed mine a couple of times a week who was more interested in me than I was in him. Finally, I told him to back off or I'd dye my hair blue.

"You do that, I'll never speak with you again!" he proclaimed. I wished I'd gotten it in writing, because the next day, when he saw me with the blue ends on my hair, he decided, "Somehow, on you, it just works!" Fortunately, I did manage to dissuade him.

Others, though, occasionally found the hair, um, too different. I did finally quit dying the ends of my hair after maybe half-a-dozen dyings...

This poem is part of Revolutionary Broads and Other Nightmares, which is looking for a publishing home.