blue ridge
They Do Not Know Us
no way to know it then but
except for the time years later
when he was in the hospital dying from a stroke
this is the only night i will ever spend
alone with him
the two of us sharing the one bed
in a hotel room way up in west jefferson
because mama said take him with you let him see
what it's like to have to live your life
on the road maybe then he'll learn to appreciate the sacrifices
a person has to make in this world
and through the little window
the mountains are covered in fog and a steady rain is falling
which he was not going out in he said
because if i caught a cold he would never hear
the end of it so we
can't go see the johnny mack brown western at the movie house
they have down the street
and nothing left to do but listen to the radio while he
drinks his wild turkey from the bottle
and the phone rings again and he stares at it and it
rings and rings
and i say you not going to answer it daddy and he says shut up
just shut the fuck up
They do not know us, we who pilot our barges in the night;
they do not know us, they who sleep whilst
we drive their rain-swept streets;
they who loll the long mornings putting seed and suet
in redwood feeders, with the sun creeping over the roof
and daytime raccoons
rolling about and barking like dogs;
they do not know us,
we who ignore caution lights and no-left turns, who toss
our beer can empties overboard
with no fear
of magistrates or fines;
they cannot know us and do not know what
we do,for they are
children of Saturn, orchid growers, singers in the Catholic church choir,
volunteer bell ringers for the Salvation Army,
who drive all the way to Hickory to purchase their
furniture, who park sideways
at the malls to protect their fine cars, and wash and wax their fine cars
twice a week by hand, with non-abrasive soaps
and chamois rags, who have the Wall Street Journal
delivered overnight to their front doors, who know they are
the appointed semi-saviors
of the western world, while we, we, the sanitation workers
anointed by Dr. King but shut out from the caves
of the holy, we who
empty the trash and recycle the cardboard and grease,
and call the pleece
to report the sick coyotes that roam their manicured lawns and leave trails
of yellow shit that they blame
on the hapless squirrels dying on the wires of their trans-
formers, no, no, they do not know us,
nor wish to know us, we who clamor through their dreams like early
morning trains
and try to act like normal people,
try to remember the punchlines of the jokes they tell us, try not to stare
at their daughters who
dance in the darkened alleys with lit candles, shiny rings
in their belly buttons, singing god knows
what kind of weird
jingle jangle arm-waving stuff,
clenched fists aloft like pillaging Iraqis; they do not know us,
and they do not know
their daughters, any better than they know
their sons, their sons who go to black churches and play washtubs
for drums, they do not know this, they do not
know the drugs their sons consume, these sons who are stealing and buying
from age ten, they do not even suspect this, they do not
know shit from shinola,
for they are deaf dumb and blind to everything
but the creature comforts they covet
every minute of every waking hour for they must have somewhere
to recycle their money
they cannot save it all, no one could save it all, these mountains of money
and letters of credit and checks and balances
and homes to borrow more money with, more than the homes
are worth, one hundred twenty-five per cent of their market value,
money to pay off the other loans and free up credit to make more loans,
but they know this, they know this by heart,they learned this
before they learned their catechisms,
they know that money will purchase beauty and stability
and all the other things that God brings
to those who tithe and love Him and pay homage to Him
every Sunday in paid-for pews, this they are certain of, this their parents
knew and passed down in promises and platitudes, in prayers,
in savings bonds and savings accounts and coin collections
and heirlooms of every description, this they know better than anything,
for it was their duty, yea, their dowry,
to count it and record it and sign the stacks of paper and cohabit
with lawyers who will do anything for a buck, who will create
a will and a way
where there was no will at all, for stupid unthinking unfeeling
idiots who die intestate and try to rob you blind, they
know this, and they know they must take their children out of the public
schools to teach them this,
for the public schools are destroying the youth of this country and trying
to make them all dress like niggers and talk like niggers
and sing nigger songs and let niggers in people's homes to fuck their daughters
the minute they can get them alone,
they know this for damned sure, because they know
the coloreds up one side and down the other and they have had just about
enough of this crap
and if there is one thing they really want to know it is how to elect
a Semi-Republican like the The Donald
who can act like a Democrat and talk that talk and walk that walk
(all right, all right, okay? walk like a penguin)
but when he gets right down to it, burn their scabby railroad houses to the ground
and put up some decent affordable hostels
for the NASCAR crowd who are the lifeblood of this entire community,
and pump more dollars
into the local economy than all the jungle bunnies put together; they know this,
for it is their birthright,
it is the law, or it by God ought to be, and everybody knows it,
plain as the nose on your face: because what good is it if the market breaks
ten more records in the current fiscal
if your sons are lost, lost, going straight to hell, and your daughters,
my god, your daughters, what to say
of the little bitches except that they are riding around in some nigger's
bimmer, ipod in one ear, cell in the other, talking
to all their little whoring friends who envy them and want
to be just like them, goddamn them, goddamn their slut bodies to hell
and if they think we won't cut them off
without a dime just you wait just you wait and see, you Strumpet of Sodom,
and when that crackhead coonjigger wrecks his
car and you go flying
through the windshield we will not be there to witness it, we will be fast
asleep in our beds,
and your room, your lovely wonderful room that we had decorated
just the way you wanted in every loving detail, your room will be empty
with the bed made up tight
and only a night light sugar bear burning, and you should have known --
didn't we tell you and tell you, didn't we? -- that
you should never ever get into a car with strangers, only people you truly
know, not just think you know,
and even then, even then my God why
are we saying this now, you know it all already, you know, and yet
you are dying, dying in slow
motion, dying all alone on a fucking two-lane blacktop in the darkness,
and no one there to help you or hold you only two more of them,
two scruffy moolie garbagemen
who climb down from the truck and shine their lights
in the bushes and the creepers where the car sailed through,
looking like they know exactly what to do,
like, you know, just a new stop along their beat,
a little fresh garbage under their feet.
James Lineberger is a retired screenwriter. His poetry has appeared in Boulevard; The Cortland Review; The Main Street Rag; UCity Review; Natural Bridge; Pembroke Magazine; Quarter After Eight; Free State Review; Sheila-Na-Gig, B O D Y; and New Ohio Review, where he won the 2017 Poetry Competition, judged by Rosanna Warren.
