Phone Bank: The Olympic Torch

Some have a hard time understanding this relay:
San Francisco, Beijing, Darfur.
I explain—the oil, arms sales, close to a half million lives. 
Others say the Olympics have nothing to do
with politics or with China.
One man can’t be bothered and I want to assure him
I won’t be asking for money but he hangs up.
I imagine he’s watching TV,
hopefully the news, hopefully the image of
the Darfurian girl in the desert, her torn blanket
shelter from a sandstorm but chances are
he’s riveted to a crime show—
a 14-year-old raped by her stepfather
but the wife claims the girl is not the victim.
She provoked it, she says,
pointing a finger at the girl, she provoked it.

Exposed 

Overheard on the bus, a woman leaves a message:
I hope it’s OK to leave you a personal voicemail at work,
the cancer is back, god help me.
 
******
 
A sweet pea climbs up the face
of an apartment building,
its buds, like tiny feet, determined.
 
******
 
My father is invited back to his German village—
a parade for him through town and then he’s taken to his home,
once confiscated by the same crowd.
 
******
 
Next door our neighbors are singing in
Hebrew, Grace after Meals: the fog lifts,
the stars assemble in a single word—Amen.
 
******
 
At Pt. Reyes we decide to veer off the trail:
after love, you pull up a dandelion and blow—
the white seeds fly past in a grand finale
 
******
 
Sea water enters the tide pool:
the starfish stirs, an anemone opens its lips,
a hermit crab attempts the getaway.

© Copyright,  2011, Stewart Florsheim,
All rights reserved.