This poem is in the current Atlantic Monthly-
Executive Shoe Shine by Mary Jo Salter
It may go on snowing forever,
but meanwhile, how he’s basking
in the sun of his own multi-tasking!
He’s perched erect on his throne,
looking down on the airport food court,
as the silver snail of a cell-phone
earpiece hooked to his ear
hangs on his every word.
No way to cut him short
until the runways are cleared
and they’ve finished out there de-icing
the right wing, then the left wing
of all those planes before his.
Could he strike us a deal with the weather?
The man hunched below him polishes
one wingtip, then the other.
I am incredibly unimpressed. This poem says nothing to me I haven't heard before. Crafted, well yes, it doesn't suck, but it's BORING- a little snippet about something, someone I have seen. If the wings, wingtips, shoeshine speaks volumes, my speakers must be on mute.
How many good poems were rejected to take this one by a familiar name?