the poetry knook :: the poetry of stephen m. james :: indianapolis, indiana » world_war_II

Cold showers

Stephen M. James — Mon, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

Couldn’t wait for the station when I saw the smoke, a nice cushion to sit on–I had only been on a train once–
but loved it.
Yellow’s not my color, but they say it was mother’s, and she wore her badge boldly before she died–wish I had one.
The older children are sad, must have been on trains many times before. Rickety cattle cars pass–
what do they with all that beef?
At last, a shower after days on the smelly train. The floor is cold. Oh no, cold showers–
I hate cold showers.

Beyond the River

Stephen M. James — Mon, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

the French countryside–I’ve seen her wear it on Sundays,
the demolished cafe–the place we met–sans the coffee;
we share memories of our mother with mortars
beyond the river where red was only roses and Revlon,
and we left our school-teaching-selves
like the rubble now under our brothers
that collapsed our bridge home.

Bathing, 10/8/1944

Stephen M. James — Mon, 30 Nov -0001 00:00:00 +0000

I couldn’t wait for the station when I saw the train smoke,
A nice cushion to sit on–I had only been on a train once
–but I had loved it.
Yellow stars under a yellow sun
it’s not my color, but it was my mother’s,
said it was too bright for a tradesmen’s wife–
on the Sabbath.
Dark bodies shuffling past the light beams
between large cracks in the overused cattle car,
What did they do with all that beef?

“Name?”
“Alter?”
“F?higkeiten?”
“Sonderbehandlung!”

Shoes, clothing, watches and jewelry piled–
I add,
didn’t even glance
“Zun?chst!”
another girl inspected and stripped as
families separate and lines form.

At last, a shower after days on the train!
No steam rose from the building ahead.
Oh no, cold showers. I hate cold showers.
It is cold and there is no soap.
a cough from the shivering elderly man to my right.