Miricle Factory

Papa’s got a job in a miracle-factory
downtown someplace, one of those streets
west of the avenue, in an old
building taller than God. There’s a marble lobby, two
elevators behind brass gates, a newsstand,
and a draft whenever anyone pushes through
the glass revolving doors. Upstairs
after the corridor, damp, windy cold
looks at an air-shaft. Soot settles softly, like snow.
I went there once with Papa. Standing soldierly
put out my hand to the boss, said, How d’you do.
I didn’t like it much. The boss said, Boy,
when you grow up I want you to remember
making miracles is just like any other line,
profit and loss,
also supply and demand. You got to sell
the product, make them believe
in it! He shook my hand.
Papa said later, He’s the boss, without
the boss, no factory. Remember that.