New Year’s Eve--
and auld lang syne

Planted
like Blessed Thistle
in a dry place,
swollen leg/trunks
mired in dank attics
of the past.
Whittled arm/branches
stretched toward
an overcast future,
seeking refuge
within the solitary confessional
called working the night shift.

Rooted
in a plastic seat
on the Metra train,
the trusses of life quivering,
our commuter car
creeps gingerly
across slick trestles.
Overhead
the sizzle and snap
of electric wires
coated
in icy layers.

Suspended
like a dangling gondola
above the bleak terrain,
subzero sky so black,
it feels like flying
through an opaque funnelform.
And then
comes the vigil light,
as we pass before a deserted mill:
Inland Steel,
a looming icon of vanquished
blue-collar culture.

Glistening
from the zenith
of a slanted alloy roof,
like the Star of Bethlehem,
a single decoration placed
annually by forgotten magi.
Those former laborers
whose sweat, toil, and brawn
fed their families
and the insatiable blast furnaces
on the casting-floor
to pound American pride.

Choked up,
thoughts falling
like snowflakes upon mindscapes,
I swallow the star
and relive the day
the plant closed.
That moment,
when mama’s eyes went
numb with purplish-red
pain that screamed
an alarm as primal and piercing
as any warning whistle.

When overturned Mason jars
spread out penny wishes
on gingham print oilcloth tabletops:
copper mined like gold.
When grocery coupons,
cut out instead of paper dolls,
were strung together
like lampions at birthday parties.
When long lines
led to day old bread
and crusts of hope
dropped by consoling neighbors.

New Year’s Eve--
and auld lang syne

Mama’s directive,
from that watershed moment,
became my center, the mantra
that brought me home.
No matter how dark the day
or uncertain the way,
even when the world’s anvil
shapes your soul
to fit its image,
follow the stars within.
Within, the stars follow and sing Alleluia
always, without ceasing, Alleluia sing.

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