Jack Hirschman/ Poem
Something Basic
For Local 87 AFL-CIO
Something basic like night
when sleepers are unaware their nightmares
are being swept away so their dreams can
put on their best,
when the dust of yesterday's deals
is cleared from the four corners of office
machines sleeping with one eye open.
Something basic like giant
moustaches of brooms sweeping across
the sidewalks of childhood, through schoolrooms
and libraries so that even old books feel
spanking new.
Someone basic as a fuse
in the cellar of a tenement darkened by lightning,
one who makes sure water comes out of the faucets,
maintains the necessary order of things at the highest
level of discreet invisibility like simplicity itself,
is often the indiginous immigrant at the root
of what makes the whole show continue,
the human janitor, who must not be slashed
like a throwaway book by the cut-crazy backstabbers
of the people, the he or she who is the real
governor of the state of things
still possibly human.
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