Gloria Bromberg
The Addiction Counselor Considers Her Job While Reading Leaves of Grass on the Bus
Last night, two hours overtime, waiting
for the ambulance, completing admission forms
in hard copy, chart notes online. I check danger to self,
unsure if that refers to the despondent client
or the culture. Or both. So many suicides,
accidental ODs, each time back from vacation
I ask Who died? This morning, so tired
I could miss my stop & ride all the way
to Fillmore at Broadway, look down
at the bright & blue Marina glistening
at noon. I could walk to Marina Green,
sit on the grass, unwrap tuna
on whole wheat, sip my Diet Coke; maybe
nap in the sunlight, breathe deeply, commune
with the lawn, be at one with every atom
of every blade of grass, feel deep & abiding
connections with animal, vegetable, mineral,
then return to my job a little late
but with renewed appreciation
for the interdependence of all things.
What really happens is, I get off
at my stop, dodge a dealer
hustling crack in front of McDonald’s.
At my building, I wave a magnetized ID
across a pad & the front door
buzzes open. I unlock my office door
with a nonreproducible key, and before
taking off my coat or opening the blinds,
I boot up & log on: dependence
on the machine, the network, departmental
applications. Incessant information, mechanization,
lies and half-truths, all reducible
to a microchip—the human element
once, now twice removed. I can’t start
from Paumanok, I can’t cross Brooklyn Ferry,
I don’t hear America singing. I hear America
crashing in on itself, shooting up, barfing up,
living down and out under the freeway, the body
electronic, transmitted via cable, satellite,
gigabit fiber, a spear of summer grass
on a screen in the privacy
of our own rooms.