Subway Ride, Spring 2002
The train moved me, clothes kept me seated.
I watched the tunnel walls blur and my face appear, nicer on black plexiglass.
The people carried off like I almost was
in the old childhood dream, my mother’s hand, the tornado in the parking lot.
Flooring soda and rain, a humble poser, a composed consumer.
Come back to me, I whispered to the purifying wind in a country I’d visited years earlier.
Come get me, I said to imaginary John Lennon in the passenger seat of my 1984 Volvo.
Nothing grows anywhere, I noted in the slick urine grime connecting two underground stations.
As for my wallet, it was light in my hand, fictitious, I didn’t deserve it —
I held it up in the crowded terminal like a magician’s pigeon.
Or I hid it between my knees on the jerking seat.
Nobody wanted to touch me, or
nobody who wanted to could reach me here,
shaken like a screaming child under wet stairs.