Packing House Patriotism

The inexorable movement of the chain of death
Suddenly clunked to a halt
The  morning of September 11th, 2014.
A scratchy announcement blared
From the seldom-used intercom system.

"We are observing a moment of silence
In memory of those who died
At the hands of terrorists
Eleven years ago today in New York City."

Hog carcasses, still warm from having passed
Through the singers, polishers and showers,
Drip blood and water into the drain troughs
Steam rises from the "hot pots" that we use
To sterilize our knives in.

For a minute silence reigned
As some of us paused to reflect;
Others just enjoyed the respite from drudgery.

Then the chain began moving again.

At 10:40
The Kill Floor took their scheduled break,
Shortened by a minute on this hallowed anniversary,
To compensate for time that had been so generously
Donated by the line workers
Without their consent
To honor the dead.

Corporate America will proudly
Wave the flag and pay vocal homage
To the Nation's fallen heroes
With as much show as anyone;
Just so long as doing so doesn't slow production
Or cut into their bottom line.

Those Moments

I've not yet found a way to summon them
At will, but I'm grateful when they do appear;
Those moments that occur far too seldom
In my life, and always when I'm alone.

Scaling a gentle rise in an Illinois field,
Surrounded by billowing prairie grasses
That bend to confide their secrets to the breeze;
Following a trail into a North Shore forest
Suddenly hushed, as though fearful of my presence;
Or hiking along the Lake Superior shoreline,
Watching the waves caress the pebbled beach
Only to see them gently rebuffed.
They retreat, only to muster the resolve
To approach the indifferent land again.
This eternal ritual of sea and shore's
Unrelenting courtship and rejection
Lays its soothing hand upon my soul.

I sigh,
Breathe deeply
And as I exhale

My sadness
My despair
My bitterness
All my unfulfilled yearnings,
All my shortcomings
Pass from me for some moments

Until the glimpse of a plane,
The distant honk of a horn,
The far away bark of a dog
Or the intrusion of another human
Into the scene wrenches me
From these moments of epiphany.

I become resentful and sullen again,
Like a weed pulled from its nurturing soil,
Its naked roots dangling, futilely longing to return
To the sustenance that it had been plucked from,
Despairing as to whether it can ever find it again.