time to get down to business. Though, can you imagine Blackbeard with a spray can?
Something recent that I've been working on:
le métro de regret
Each night, I slip down the stairs beneath
the surface of the skin of the earth. I pay my fee,
join the sad crush of the lost, and ride.
It is, as are all the sad arts, undeniably
french. Edith Piaf would be proud, were she not
so busy breaking our hearts.
The other travelers are whispers of their daytime selves.
Sometimes, we find ourselves caught,
our destinations unexpectedly exposed in the pale
lamplight. Without a word, we shuffle our feet,
board a different train without asking where it's going.
Only later do we realize the sad traveler,
mouth half open catching their breath, might
have been asking the same question sleeping
in our throats, and so we reach a hand to the cold
surface of the window, seeing a mirror reflection
wearing a better coat, longer scarf
rolling away beneath the insomniac city.
We ride all night sometimes, not in the gum-chewing
New York subway fashion, but like a glass of wine
you thought you paid too much for, only to discover its scent
on your tongue while making love two years later.
In the morning, we sleep or pretend to sleep.
In our beds, at our desks, driving our cars,
we shuffle through another number on our
calendar, wondering where we've been.
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