Three Poems by Michael J. LaFrancis

The Goal Rush

Grand Central Station next stop.
Exit to the right of the train.
Watch the gap between the car and the platform please.

Thousands climb the stairs and converge
as they pass the golden clock tower,
that perches above the ticket counter.

The pounding of their leather heels
against the tile floor
sounds like a stampede

toward a set of stairs, these down,
to the Red Line 1, 2, 3
to the right side for Uptown, left for Downtown.

As the next train arrives the brakes are screeching,
the number or letter and destination is flashing
in red colored lights. The door opens, some get out.

Those who have been waiting push forward
trying to make sure they get all the way in,
before the door closes in front of them.

Some look forward, some look out
for the white letters and numbers
painted on black placards

This is 14th Street, Union Square.
The next stop is Brooklyn Bridge, City Hall.
Transfer is available to the 4, 5, J, and Z trains,

At the end of the day or week,
they will reverse this migration
to arrive home again.

I am in awe how many millions of people
can get where they want to go,
with a few simple signs for direction.

What Will Become of Me?

While so many of you
were under lockdown,
my clock at Grand Central was still

on duty directing traffic;
my trains and buses were delivering
those working to keep you alive.

I see you looking beyond your masks
into each other’s eyes, perhaps seeing
a cocktail of emotions for the first time

shaken and stirred are your stories
loss with longing,
like those that have been told before.

We will need to open our hearts
wider and deeper for me to be THE City
in your American dream.

The Dream

Your eyes are blue like the ocean,
observed the customs agent
at Beijing International.

“They are my mom’s eyes.”

A Chinese photographer
was taking pictures of me
in a tan fedora, brown felt boots,
snapping photos on my phone.

Cream-colored condos climb
out of the ground, like hollyhocks,
as bankers and investors play poker,
matching and raising tall buildings.

Cars crowd the throughways,
like ants on a hill. Tail lights,
street lights, and lanterns, all red,
decorate large cities, not scooters or bikes.

Our official tour guide,
a dark-haired woman, 30ish,
tells us everyone wants cash,
credit, cars and condos.

Permits are issued for alternate days of the week
that allow us to drive and run air conditioning,
guns and knives are not allowed in public,
police carry wooden clubs and walkie talkies.

China Dream was written in calligraphy
on a sign posted on a green construction wall.
“What is China Dream?”

We want harmony with our spirit,
in our relationships, meaningful work,
health and prosperity now, in the afterlife.

Michael J. LaFrancis is a trusted advisor and advocate for individuals, groups and organizations aligning purpose, capabilities and ideals. Writing poetry is a contemplative practice providing him with insight and inspiration for living a life imagined. He and his partner Sharon are co-authors of their autobiography.

Please note: Poetry is compressed to fit smart phone screens. If you are reading this poem on a phone screen, please turn your screen sideways to make sure that you are seeing correct line breaks for this poem.