To New World workers

by Don Franks

fire-of-the-cosmosEach Wednesday night, in term time
my little ritual comfortingly rolls
a Tawa train to teach guitar
to thirty something olds
they say that little kids love repetition,
its surety,
well, so do we.

Gold carded, guarded
in our still surviving carapace
with ready money, anxious face
our brittle little clutch on space

Key part of Wednesday’s ritual’s buying supper bits
to have before the class
a dither at the station Deli in the throng
a sausage roll, two mandarins, a nicely burnt cheese scone
The best part, now I look back, is not chowing down this stuff.
It’s that reassuring line of kids before the door.
bright faced black shirted eager, bare arms waving

No purchase is too small or big or dumb
their smiling line stands firm,
beside their sure machines, their certain youth
they beckon COME

Whatever they get paid it can’t be fair
where they vanish to beyond their shift I cannot go
may their new world revolution
explode into a bigger brilliant cosmos
than my head can ever know.