Why A Workers' Mural Hangs On
At Rincon Annex, with paintings of labor,
the building's new owners
have made a post office into a mall
and don't want the murals there.
Paintings don't have souls.
They don't bleed when cut
or cry when they are painted over
but maybe, at Rincon Annex
the Chinese workers' ghosts would have
come downtown and then
hollered and shouted at the passing
tourists and Christmas shoppers.
The ghosts may materialize as one scurries away
with packages.
Maybe the Native Americans' drums
would be heard for miles,
and Tom Mooney's
ghost would sing
prison songs with Joe Hill's and Harry Bridges',
the voices noisy, loud, and rowdy,
so loud that cars would beep
as they drove by,
the drivers waving their hands
in unity,
so maybe, that's why the
Rincon Annex murals got to stay.
Park 55 Victory
Each hotel worker has
circled the hotel entrance
a hundred times;
each waiter and janitor
carries a sign
and shouts at the owner
sheltered far in the building;
their arms hurt a little
from the pickets;
the cooks and cleaners
have been singing
for an hour,
their songs on crumpled
sheets of paper,
folded many times.
They get the intangible things
they want when cars
drive by and honk.
The tourists are
flustered by the
noise and crowd;
they confusedly drive in
being asked by Arlene to leave.
The demonstration
has lasted two hours,
and it is getting to be dusk,
getting to be the
end of lunch hour,
or time to break up.
The circle has held.
When they sign her Union contract.
Arlene hugs Alice, Alice hugs Ricardo,
Ricardo hugs Felix,
Felix hugs Ella, Ella hugs David,
David hugs the next in line.
The Day Laborers
Day laborers
line Cesar Chavez Street,
a small group of men
on each corner,
workers
waiting
ready to go
or not.,
getting by
until the next day;
the on-the-street hiring hall
where the ICE
may show up,
or not;
another day of Spanish-speaking men
looking.
I glide by inside
a car window
looking for
my day to begin.
We are all starting our day.
For the men on the corners,
each day starts
over and over
again.
