In a Black Mood

GREY DAWN

L ast night I dreamt you sleeping
Tide-strewn,
Careless atop a strip of flotsam
From some poison-laden flood
Washed up in an alley.

Your cheek-bones bruised the concrete
Buckled, winter-shattered.
Grey as the stone, that cheek,
Grey and stone-stiff,
Sleeping in the alley.

I spoke; words without meaning,
Clanking of ghost-chains.
Above us, party-makers sang.
A drunk reeled down the fire-escape
Laughing in the alley.

And I saw again your child-limbs,
Sun browned, bath glowing,
Draped across your bedclothes,
Toy cars and teddies
And your favourite blankie.

Last night I dreamt you sleeping.

©Susannah Anderson, '98
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MOTHER GOOSE BUMPS

Little Jack Horner
Sobs in a corner.

Are you weeping, are you weeping,
Brother John?

Little Miss Muffet- don't you just love it!
Is eating her troubles away.

Diddle diddle dumpling,
My son John
Hides in bed from the boogie man.

Winken, Blinken and Nod one night,
Were beat with a leather shoe.

Polly put the icepack on.

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray Thee, Lord, don't let me dream.

©Susannah Anderson, '98
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CONTROLLED BURN

I don't want to be tough, she said
one corner of her lip downturning
I want to break
founder go under. I want to sink
to crumple, weeping
not caring who sees.

I won't bear up. No more.
I want to wail and shriek
spit anger shout the f word.
hurl your laundry from my upstairs window.
into the street.

I don't want to be strong. I need
to be tempted to fall to spend
to pile up debts max
your cards blow it all
and walk away.

I want to sit down quietly with all your photos
cut them square between the eyes
and the smile

©Susannah Anderson, Dec, '99
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WEEK SIXTY-THREE

Y esterday I dropped my resumé at cafes on Denman Street
from the beach to Robson. Talked to one manager; never
told him that my experience is that one time
I helped with Joanie's barbecue. Used my last loonie for a coffee; had to bum
bus money from shoppers at the grocery store. The paper
I picked up in MacDonald's had nothing, unless I could work

a couple of years in construction into my resumé somewhere. Gotta find work
quickly, or next month I'll be out on the street
sleeping under a bridge somewhere. Won't think about that; there's a paper
scrunched up in my pocket, a number on it. Johnston? Painter? I never
could read my own writing. No; it's janitorial. Bum
job, but I'll try them anyhow...busy. Any time

I'm at home where I can call free, I can't get the time
of day...busy...busy...Hello! I am looking for work...
Oh, I see. Thanks anyway. Well, that was one bum
steer. Position filled last week! Shit. Talking to a street
kid last Monday, she said you could always sell drugs. Me? Never.
I can't see myself hanging around paper

and condom-strewn alleyways, carrying pot and crack in brown paper
bags. Or building up a clientele in the clubs, looking out all the time
for the cops. Not my style. But...never say never.
If I got hungry enough? That or welfare? No. Gotta find work!
Accounting, they said, accountants get good jobs. On Wall Street,
even. Study accounting, sit on your bum

in front of a computer until they downsize you. Your own fault, bumbling
along, counting on job security until they hand you your walking papers
and you walk to the end of the line, down the street
half a block from the doors of the Employment office. Time
to read the ads; first the professions. You'll find work
in your field, easy. You're a professional, after all. Never

fear. What crap! Your counselors were living in never-never
land; there are no jobs, your final job description will be welfare bum.
Met a guy yesterday, used to have a great job, used to work
for CBC, now he's pushing a broom and picking up paper
napkins in the mall.. Ah, here's something: Enthusiastic self-starter for part-time
position. Possible earnings... What? On half-days? Easy Street,

here I come. Right. Well, never get anywhere reading the paper,
will we? Better get out there and work the old sales pitch again. Time
was I'd not give a dime to a bum on the street.

©Susannah Anderson, Dec, '99
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TRUTH

T ruth*

is fallen in the street. Her walker
tipped in the gutter,
ankle snapped Can't get up,
old bones like straws

softly now
slide her in tie her down
gently Coddle her.
Watch for shock.

Ask her the date
Take note; confused
and wandering
Humour her.

Truth wandered alone
into the street
in walker and nightgown
looking for yesterday

*After Isaiah 59:14

©Susannah Anderson, Dec, '99