on and off

a history major Bolshevik summer I once spent
in an amusement park
working for Saskatoon’s overprivileged children
hammering the button of the merry-go-round
turning my back on accidents and lovers
spitting over the fence.

intent on so little those days
beyond the growth of my goatee
the redness of my blood
I almost missed Juan
and his children
who paid every day
for three rounds on the smiling zebras
never cotton candy.

Juan from El Salvador
former union chief who
when the spiral of empty bottles
and comrade’s coffins
began to tighten around him
left for the airport –
wife and children
yawning in their nightclothes.

Juan from El Salvador
somehow in Saskatchewan where
struggling with good morning
stumbling over seasons
falling through the ice
wife working minimum wage in a picture-framing business
and he
            unemployed
taking his kids on the merry-go-round
getting off
where he got on

then the bus home

and I watched them go
troubled by little more than the stubble on my chin
and the daily dialectic over
whether my razor should make me more
like dowdy Karl
defiant Fidel
glossy Mao
sexy Che.