Saturday mornings as a kid

I saw him sitting on the sidewalk

in front of Woolworths

with his wind-up record player.

He had no arms.

Today, Moroccan “mule ladies” strain

under loads lashed to their backs

at the barbed wire fence

that separates Europe’s wealth

from Africa’s despair.

He had no arms, but it was amazing

what he could do with his feet and toes.

We watched with fascination

not understanding why mother whispered

‘move on’.

The bundles on their backs

are as big as washing machines

though this they do not know

never having had one

in their five-dollar-a-day world.

He would take a record

his ring toe and his pinky

and place it on the turntable

while with the other foot

he would crank the handle.

“Yes, the bundles they are heavy,

heavier than each woman, 

but to close the border

would leave them destitute.” 

So said the official from Melilla, Spain.

Then he would gently move the arm

with his first toe and the second,

softly settling the needle in the groove,

and the record rasped

as if clearing its throat before the song.


 

They carry the pain of the world,

bending under its weight

because they have to live. 

And the tears of the white man

are as dry as desert dust.

And the music floated from the gramophone:

Sammy Kaye singing Harbor Lights,

and I nearly wept,

not for the person with no arms,

but for the music, and myself.