John Hicks

John Hicks is a New Mexico poet working on his first book. His poetry has been published by: Valparaiso Poetry Review, I-70 Review, Poetica, Blue Nib, Verse-Virtual, and others. He writes in the thin mountain air of the southern Rockies.

The Unseen

Slumping against the fence beside the bus stop,
his white uniform bearing the staccato splatter
of a night’s work: soups and sauces, salad dressings,

and light gravies for customer-facing day shifts,
the prep cook’s cigarette glow swells in the dark,
pushes a blue “vee” of smoke upward out of the light.

The beer truck driver, stopped in front of The Dubliner,
is picking up empty kegs, rolling hollow metallic gratings
across brick sidewalk grit.

We fool ourselves that each day starts fresh.
Like every city, St. Louis has an entire population
you never see unless you’ve been part. It’s there

in empty waste baskets and polished floors, trucks washed,
filters changed, lights replaced, and clean restaurant menus.
Steeped in tasks, it has its own sense of community.

A city bus slows; the driver recognizes the cook and waves.
Doesn’t ride his route, but knows him. Cook waves back.
Switching hands with his cell phone, he bows his head

over it. His left hand gestures, palm lifting and falling,
then drops to his side. Arching his back,
he rocks against the railing; straightens up.

In the alley, a deliveryman rattles his cargo door
up into its recess, then clangs a hand truck
onto pavement. Cases thump into shadowed stacks.

An early car turning at the stoplight, washes its beams
across the intersection, touching cook briefly.
He closes his eyes, shoulders turn against the glare.