VIEW FROM A GREEN BOX
During the last century,
I worked for my blind uncle
in a newsstand against the library
by the Flushing line. It was park green
and cramped, too cold then too hot.
Mornings all the parts were inside,
at night they were back inside again.
The papers were on a shelf in the front,
then magazines on a counter, and finally
a wooden change tray shiny smooth sanded
by decades of fingers that held
nickels, dimes, quarters and occasional pennies.
Folding money went in my apron pocket.
It was a simple operation open only to sell
three evening papers all telling
the same stories differently.
I worked alone except for help at 4,
when I had a break, peed and ate.
From 4:30 to 6 it was frantic:
making change on the fly,
scooping coins into wooden bowls,
banding bills and rolling change.
I wore dark sun glasses, so people
thought I was blind.
The world passed in front day after week
after year. It was like a game at a fair –
a sidewalk, a big street, another sidewalk
and then buildings.
Buses came from the left and then to the right
on the other side right to left.
The Times Square tourists always asked
the same questions. The world went by
whether we were looking or not. Every type
walked by in a day. After time we saw patterns.
My uncle knew each day’s story by its sounds
I was amazed how much he saw with no eyes.