I’m alone with the night again thinkingevery union, every right: the ghost of afailed general strike. The smoke laughs outof me against the night: every union, every right:the ghost of a failed general strike.My father taught me how to play pokernext to the Murphy bed. After every deal, he said“the pot is right.” Whose pot is right & why:the ghost of a failed general strike.In his metallic mauve Altima the Black &Mild’s cut sharpie-sized holes in thetan leather interior. Every cigar,every car: the ghost of a failedgeneral strike. His uncle kept a sawedoff in his jacket “to keep the scabs in line.”Summer ’59, nationwide steel strike.Every empty steel mill I spelunked in— drunk & under age, every warehouseempty like my pockets, every cavityin this city’s foaming mouth, everyinch of the continued occupation ofthis continent; the ghosts of a failed general strike,teeth, leather, bricks in the pavement,the river & its course, the speedat which a car becomes criminal, thecolor & quantity of my hair, the height& weight of my father & uncles, the percentageof the stars in the sky at night; the ghostof a failed general strike.