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MY NAME IS TOM SMITH
My name is Tom Smith. “Yes, really!” Is my response to
women in bars and cops who stop me on the street because
I look like somebody. Some other people in bars take me for
a narc because – they tell me later – of the way I look or
because of the way I walk. When they find out my name, they
sort of step back a little and shoot me a sidelong glance. I don’t
mind. I think it’s kind of funny. My mother, Mary Smith, snickered
when I told her. She still thinks I look more like Charley Manson.
My name is Tom Smith and I work in this here beat up, red brick
factory in Detroit. I get along with most everybody even though
there are a lot of assholes in this world and some of them work
here. It’s 1985 and I’ll be dead in 2 years at 48. Somebody will
find me on the floor of my mobile home in Belleville. Too many
cigarettes, booze and a bad diet I guess. Can’t really blame the job.
I’m here in this life ‘cause I got nowhere else to be. I had a double
bypass a while back or else some other asshole would be working
this press right now.
Me and the ex-wife divorced a long time ago. Our three kids are
grown up and living away from me and her. Two are doing OK. But
that one girl? Well – she’s a lot like me. Likes to have a good time.
She’ll finally get married after I’m gone but it won’t last. My other
two will hang in there. As for me? Once in a while after the bars
close and that horny old thang raises its ugly head, I call up my
emergency lover-girl and we have a good time. She understands
and doesn’t question. In a few years she will write a poem about
finding my grave among graves in a lifeless barren field. Later,
she writes, a visit to a favorite old cemetery satisfies her search
for evidence of a life among the discarded beer cans and time-
worn stones. My name is Tom Smith.
But you knew all that and more you won’t tell. The presses will fall
silent at last. Three black crows will stand high ── nodding on their
roost. I will yield and slip silently away. I will take nothing because
I brought nothing. I will give to you what I had ── to hold ‘til it’s
your time. You will remember me long after I cock my head and
plunge from the ledge. And you will write a poem about me ──
or will it be about you. My name is Tom Smith.
CITY MAN for Lisa
Cadillac Square, in the light of day,
bustles with the business of
commerce and traffic, taxi cabs
and limousines. Fashionable
women escorted to bistros.
Shadows lengthen – obscuring
sins of the coming hours
This late night a solitary figure
emerges from the labyrinth–
WSJ under arm, briefcase
in hand – makes his way to a
chauffeured black Jaguar purring
at the curb. Sewer steam rising to
an amber triangle beam.
A southbound bus pauses – blocking
my view. A woman yells my name
from a speeding car heading north –
her black locks flowing. Purple tail
lights flicker, diminish as the Jag slips
in behind, bound for its’ Bloomfield
marble and mahogany cage.
I hesitate and watch as the bus
continues on. Then somewhat
cautiously I step from the median
and head eastward to my
Gratiot Ave walk-up studio –
my cat, Cat, purring at the door
patiently for footsteps on the stairs.
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