Picnic

Picnic
Christopher Bogart

At the end of a hospital visit with my aunt,
I walked down the long blue corridor toward the elevators
and slowly gaining ground on an orderly dressed all in blue,
the fingers of his right hand were rapped firmly around
the rattan handles of a wicker picnic basket.

I must admit to a little curiosity,
if not a little amusement
at the incongruity of a picnic basket,
lined with a red and white checkered table cloth,
in the hands of a hospital orderly.

We turned together to face the elevator door.
I was heading to my car to bring my aunt home,
he, I mused, to a plot of green grass under a small tree,
maybe across from the hospital parking lot; and,
in that semi-secluded spot, to enjoy a quiet lunch,
away from illness and grim realities of a hectic hospital day.

The doors rolled opened slowly.
He gestured for me to enter first,
then he turned and faced the door.
“What floor?” he asked as he pushed the button labeled B.
“Ground Floor, please.” I responded.
He nodded and pressed G.

I sighed as I thought of my aunt’s recent illness,
and how happy I was to be taking her home.

The elevator lurched into action, and downward.
He stared, solemnly, at the metallic doors.
To break the tension, I opined
“You must be looking forward to lunch.”
Then asked, “Going on a picnic?”
He turned his head, ever so slightly toward me
and smiled ever so politely,
if a little pointed,
then looked down at the basket in his hand.
“Oh. You mean this.” He sighed with a heavy heart.

Hardly an attitude to take at the prospect of a picnic.

“No.” he said. “This isn’t what you think.”
Well, I wondered, what else could it be?
“This,” and he gestured to the basket, “is so not to alarm the visitors.
I am transporting this infant to the morgue in the basement.”

In the brief silence that ensued, mercifully,
the bell rung and the doors of the elevator opened.
“Ground floor.” He stated plainly,
and to my eternal relief,
he stepped aside to let me pass.

I did not look back, as the doors closed behind me,
And the elevator made its solemn way to the basement below.
I had to get my car.
My aunt was being released from the hospital today.

The Madonnas of the Plastic Bags

The Madonnas of the Plastic Bags
Christopher Bogart

their barreled bodies poured into
stretch slacks of pink and black,
their backs hunched in repeated stoopings,
they climb out the back of a black pickup truck,
silently as to not disturb the clientele
sipping frapaccino on the curb.

Their thick brown fingers clutch empty black bags,
their plastic shining dull images of pain,
left to wane in the fading light.

They reach their aching arms up to the air
as would a chubby child
gesticulating the fate how high
to pull full bags, bags
stuffed to overflow with the detritus of the upper middle class day,
of circulars and shopping bags from high-end stores,
of plastic water bottles and cardboard cups
escheoned with the green Starbuck’s logo,
of crumpled paper napkins and transparent straws.

They lift the bags high, the elevation of the host of refuse
now slid out from their circular wrought iron containers,
now carried carefully to the truck,
now slung over the gate and into the back of its flat bed,
destined to be dumped, emptied at a date and time
unknown to all but the continued monotony of the act,
repeated in a laborious litany of container after container,
store after high-end store,
again and again and again.

And when their day is finally done,
these middle aged madonnas crawl
into their flat bed
and pray
for rain tomorrow.