The Way

It is a corridor like any
in an institution like any
of ours. Someone
has been here before you,
more competent and beautiful,
who was smart enough to attend
class the day directions were given;
a perfume lingers
or scuff-marks from a running shoe.
Around a vending machine,
those who must wait
glare; you try to pretend
you aren’t afraid, you’re on their side,
you don’t see them, only
the unfairness – knowing
how stiffly you pass.
Reinforced windows display
the grounds. You could run out,
steal a vehicle,
offroad across the creeks, the grass;
signs on the distant electrified fence
invite you there.
One room has monitors
and a guard, who watches
van after van of explosives file
into the loading bay.
Some doors open
on staff and clients fucking among
supplies; you watch awhile.
But the numbered rooms
are those from which a sound of crying
comes, or a shout;
including the one you seek
where you may unburden
yourself of frustration, hopes, recriminations,
and be thrown out.
They are so many and you so lost,
you signal your distress
the way one does, by smiling;
asked how you’re doing
you say, as one must, OK,
again request directions …
but the way that can be told is not the Way.

copyright 2007 Frederick Pollack
bio
Barnwood magazine
Contents 07