Starving ArtistA Poem by C.T. BaileyProse employing an extended metaphor comparing a homeless person to an artisan. The piece is intended for a poetry slam I will be performing in on August 15th.It’s hot, maybe 90 degrees or so and I am waiting for my wife and the parking lot we’re sitting in is overflowing with cars and shoppers, cars and shoppers, everywhere cars and shoppers and they move back and forth to the stores like a high and low tide. And with this next wave I am drowning in boredom and sweat. I catch a glimpse
of some human form that is flitting and floating, appearing and disappearing, a
dozen rows down from me. I strain for a
clearer view but the movement lost between the cars, the glaring sunlight from windshields,
and an ethereal heat mirage, in which all things seem to melt together. Then, with clarity that startles me, the
vaporous form finally manifests itself. A woman, or girl, I cannot be sure, but
I know because the white dress she is wearing coils around her body with her
every turn. She is a good bit away from me
yet, but still moving in my direction �" pirouetting between cars, turning and
speaking a few words to this shopper then the next, but always remaining in
this constant state of fluid motion. I am intrigued with her. As she nears, she approaches a Benz and I can
see the driver shaking his head and waving a hand in the air �" the universal
sign synonymous with “you’re bothering me.” She
continues this dance and I vacillate between amusement with the art form of
this parking lot ballerina and a worry - knowing that in a few moments she is
going to see me and I cannot hide. In a
few minutes, I will be confronted with truth �" the knowledge of who, what, and
why. Even at this
distance, her appearance is quite stunning.
Thin, and as she spins around her blonde hair alternates shoulders on
which it rests. For a moment, I am
puzzled. And then I
understand. She’s
bumming money - a con artist, I say out loud, shattering the quiet of the car. I am almost
paralyzed by my thoughts. And as she
draws near, I can see how the distance between us has been a liar. She must be twenty-four or twenty-five but
her mottled face doubles that. The white dress she is wearing is tattered at
the hem and soiled in an array of brown and yellow hues. The hair I admired just moments earlier now
shows itself to be matted and dingy in color.
Her movement slows only momentarily as she catches me looking her
over. We make eye contact and she floats
towards me. I cannot resist. I roll down
my window. She kneels
before my door, both hands gripping its surface as if she is trying to see past
the edge of the universe and leaning just at the lip of the void. In this asphalt Gethsemane, the sweat beads
across her furrowed brow and when she opens her mouth an eternity passes before
me while I’m waiting for her words to drift through me like a holy breeze. Her teeth are crooked and stained. Her blue eyes give every absolute indication
of desperation and in this infinite stillness I wonder. I wonder how she arrived at this place in her
life; I wonder where she goes at night; I wonder what she eats; I wonder if
anyone misses her; I wonder if she has kids, and I wonder if she has ever known
the exhilaration of finding a three dollar blouse - just her size, just her
color - hanging in the wrong place on the rack.
As words begin
to form and flow across her cracked lips, hope spills from her eyes and fills
the car. The same hope Michelangelo held
as the paint flowed from his brush tip and covered a ceiling while he suffers
the pain of lying on a plank for hours on end, the same hope Beethoven must have
felt as the vibrations from the chords he struck pierced his deaf ears, the
same hope that painted the ground crimson below a tree where hangs the
Christ. And I
realize the only thing that separates my life from hers isn’t an
education. It isn’t an ability to
conjure extended metaphors and write pages of symbolic prose, and it certainly
isn’t who I know or where I’ve been or what I’ve done. It is my own
misguided hope. She hopes
for something to eat; I hope to get home in time for an early supper. She hopes she doesn’t get raped when she
falls asleep behind a dumpster tonight; I hope my wife hadn’t forgotten to wash
the bed linen. She hopes to score a pair of shoes from Goodwill for free; I
hope I can find a pair of wingtips that are more cordovan than brown this time. And this
fear that grips me tells me the real truth about this young woman: the real difference between us, the one thing
that keeps me on the inside this air conditioned Volvo and not leaning beside
its window in the heat looking for my next meal is the quickened cruel fate of
my world hurdling out of control. Then this
seraph speaks. And…all I can hear while reaching
for my wallet is Master Beethoven softly humming the measures of “Ode to Joy” <Hum five
measures of “Ode to Joy”> She offers
me God’s blessing as she again pirouettes away and I am convinced her angelic presence
is leaving me only to revel in my own fate �" to consider how it should come to
pass that I might stand before some congregation of souls, spewing lines of
poetry prompted by my measure of fear and hope. © 2011 C.T. BaileyAuthor's Note
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1 Review Added on August 3, 2011 Last Updated on September 26, 2011 Tags: homeless, redemption AuthorC.T. BaileyBristol, VAAboutC.T. Bailey has authored a number of professional articles which have been published in various industry trade publications. He is also an award-winning and published writer of poetry, prose, and fic.. more..Writing
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