Two young men—you just might call them boys— <br />waiting for the Woodward streetcar to get <br />them downtown. Yes, they’re tired, they’re also <br />dirty, and happy. Happy because they’ve <br />finished a short work week and if they’re not rich <br />they’re as close to rich as they’ll ever be <br />in this town. Are they truly brothers? <br />You could ask the husky one, the one <br />in the black jacket he fills to bursting; <br />he seems friendly enough, snapping <br />his fingers while he shakes his ass and sings <br />“Sweet Lorraine,” or if you’re put off <br />by his mocking tone ask the one leaning <br />against the locked door of Ruby’s Rib Shack, <br />the one whose eyelids flutter in time <br />with nothing. Tell him it’s crucial to know <br />if in truth this is brotherly love. He won’t <br />get angry, he’s too tired for anger, <br />too relieved to be here, he won’t even laugh <br />though he’ll find you silly. It’s Thursday, <br />maybe a holy day somewhere else, maybe <br />the Sabbath, but these two, neither devout <br />nor cynical, have no idea how to worship <br />except by doing what they’re doing, <br />singing a song about a woman they love <br />merely for her name, breathing in and out <br />the used and soiled air they wouldn’t know <br />how to live without, and by filling <br />the twin bodies they’ve disguised as filth.<br /><br />Philip Levine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-extraordinary-morning/
