SECOND PLACE POEM
All in a Day's Work
By Go-Ann Godfrey
Sherwood Park, Alberta
They sit like robots staring blankly into space,
cushioned in thoughts, dissociated and vague,
waiting for their names to be called.
They can expect one to two hours, which is not
At all outrageous in relation to the world.
The pages of the magazine
are dry,
my tongue, my throat, my fingers are dry.
I can’t flip one page at a time, they amass
in bunches. I won’t wet my finger. The bacteria
that must live on these pages. I need rubber gloves.
The ashen walls
coincide with these,
trapped in this room, skins of non-living.
I read bits and pieces, weight loss, diets,
multiple orgasms, protection plans, same old thing.
A putrid smell of urine, medicine, and body odour
invade whatever openings it can find.
I try to think of something
nice, like eating chocolate,
or walking on hard, wet sand, with the sound
of the ocean beside me. If only I had brought a book.
of my own to read. That’s when she burst in,
tall and thin, on heels like flagpoles.
Her hair, piled on top
of her head
like bird feathers in mid-molt.
Walls tremble with the energy she exudes.
“I have an appointment, right now,” she announces.
The receptionist lethargically looks up,
expecting more words, which she gets.
“But where am I supposed to park?”
Feet shuffle. A few
coughs happen, and the receptionist
says, “Excuse me?” The newcomer towers
like a lighthouse in a pending storm.
“Tell me, quickly,” she demands
as her fist drums on the counter.
“My motor is running on who knows what,
the kids are suffering from claustrophobia and boredom,
and it’s cold outside.”
“For your information,” the
receptionist snaps,
“I am hired to set up appointments, I am not
a parking lot attendant.”
“Well why don’t you get one,” the young woman hisses
and leans over the counter, “And have them phone me
ahead of time if the parking lot is full.”
Mumbling rises from the crowd
like steam from a volcano.
The room quivers and twitches with the remembrance
of possible reactions.
“I don’t have time
for this,”
the young woman concludes,
and the door slams behind her.
A couple of people follow her.
A few people strike up a conversation. A name is called.
The phone rings. The receptionist answers.
“Don’t ever call me at work again,” she snarls
and slams down the receiver so hard
that the doctor’s business cards fall off the counter.
Copyright
(c) 2004 for the author, all rights reserved.
THIRD PLACE
POEM
Seen on the
Dragon
Boat
of Souls
By Stephen K. Roney
Kamloops, British Columbia
Sometimes a journey makes itself necessary.
Relentlessly polite, elaborately
uncommunicative;
Sounding as if she’s holding a teacup
With her voice.
Why is she here?
Still as a monument backed by the wandering Yangtze
In this confused tin ferryboat,
Sixteen bunks per stateroom
Smelling of hot urine,
Loud with flies.
Too pretty to be a missionary,
Too solitary to be a wife.
What distant voices summoned her
Above Shanghai
Into the autumn mists?
Kuan Yin, remember us.
None of us can know
All we know, who are on this ferry,
Is that we journey
And do not arrive.
Copyright
(c) 2004 for the author, all rights reserved.
