By Thomas Page
This is a series of poems of words that do not directly translate into English. I have tried to capture the essence of the word in a poem.
I was working near the mainstage
With a clicker in my hand
And a mappack at my waist
As the summer sun bled through the trees
And I watched the trademarked thing waltzing around
Of a distant pit orchestra behind the trademarked thing.
I, a beast of business, stood near another
Selling the idea of transportation as she walked around my cage.
“You want lipbalm?” she asked extending a branded stick.
“Sure,” I said, making sure my ward was still vertical.
At the moment, I heard a familiar name as I saw a familiar face.
We had gone to high school together some time ago
Before we wore different uniform shirts
And parted with board and gown and diploma
At the place with the mosaic ceilings.
I remember taking theology with her.
She sat behind me and sometimes ran her hands through my hair as if I were her dog
She also told me one time that I looked a mess.
We exchanged pleasantries as a respite from work
As she introduced me to her coworkers.
She handed me a fistful of lipbalms and corporate memorabilia
As she darted back to survey the park.