Omnivore
Jon Powell
In line at the Canal Villere,
I watch the woman in front of me
unload her cart. Unload her needs
on an endless belt. The checker scans
each item past a beam of light&seems
only to listen for the acquiescent
bing. A box of elbows and cheese, crunchy
cereal, some quick grits, a six-pack.
Not to different from my own needs a few
years
back. More lettuce now. Yellow&red
peppers. Now, fish-food flakes
for the pond. Cat litter. In the dark parking
lot I off-load the cart into the trunk.
Cheap steaks. Celery. Squash.
Take care with the six bright bottles
of Beaujolais nouveau - all my spare cash
for the rest of November. The car won't crank.
What are my needs? I don't know anymore.
A month ago a man was killed in front
of me. Shot through his forehead from a parked
car that shot off leaving ribbons of tire tracks,
curling ribbons of exhaust. It was over
in an instant. I don't even know
what color the car was. I left before
the cops arrived. Before the gunsmokeís
dissipation.
What were his needs? His wants? That
night in front of the bar, a gunshot
left him with a dot in his forehead.
A third eye to take in what in his last
nanosecond?
Over 400 killed
this year in Orleans Parish. Most, men
about the age of my sons. Most, black.
Young men I don't know. Wouldn't known
cacooned as I am in this
part of town. A white guy free
to go shopping late at night.
In the parking lot a woman comes up to me.
I am not startled. Is this your
car? she asks. Yes. She points to the bumper
stickers on the rear window,&asks
if I work at WWOZ, New Orleans' community
station. Her brother does.
No, I tell her. Only listen.
Can you give me a jump?
At home on the patio, even though
it is November,&dark, even though
the grill is stubborn, I want to barbeque
the meat. A perfect meal. An innocent
consummation. The glistening fat spattering.
This past spring as I sat on the patio
late one morning, a tiny spider
rappelled down on a gossamer wire
from a branch of the Japanese Plum. She
hit the patio in a run, furtive in her
spidery way. A wasp not much larger
that the spider pounced on the spider,
stung the spider. Like TV cartoon characters
in a swirling squabble, the battle raged
& ended in seconds. The wasp grappled
the spider, splayed legs jerking,
zigzagged to a crack between the flagstones.
Why I remember the spider now, jostling
briquettes, cajoling fire, sipping the voodoo
of the first vintage, I don't know.
jon powell
