Subway Woman

She looks into the subway car

like a criminal looks into their jail cell

with contempt, with bitterness,

with acceptance.

 

It’s 1AM, car a quarter full,

faint summer air conditioning filling

the air along with her grievances.

 

She resigns, lays back in her seat

after picking some lint out of her hair

she doesn’t know how she got here, either.

 

 

Why this city? Why that man

that made you so tired you didn’t care

to go back to the love you found

beneath the stairs, hand in hand,

balancing the acts of dependance and diplomacy.

 

Plastic bag full on the lap,

eyes closed now, keeping still–

maybe that will make everything less real:

 

“I belong in the subway, now.

This orange chair may backdrop

to a life of longing,

I’ll sit here and nap

until I reach my destination unknown

(probably 145th street).

 

Perm fixed upon me with slight pride

I thought maybe that would help free me

but I guess adding more layers, more chemicals,

more time and energy doesn’t make up

for the enthusiasm my story has stolen from me.

 

How fun it was to lay in the sun at high noon,

park bench, husband waiting. How full the moon

felt when I first read his lips, his eyes, his kiss.

 

The kids will understand;

they are older now.

 

I can sleep in peace.”

 

based on a woman I saw in the NYC subway 

 

July 31, 2016

 

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Watching the Clock

Love

is a drug

that just keeps on giving

despite its worth,

commercialized

side effects

how to handle

a man

one on one

a manual

I was never given–

where is it?

 

The time I found

the nail

and all I wanted

was a hammar

to put me back in my place

I found you,

instead–

eyes glazed over

from the fact

that I was a well enabled

woman

to kick your ass

back to second base

 

Just tell me a story,

dear Love,

of how you existed

among priests

and kings

and witches

and me,

stories of younger days

past narratives

water drowning

my teacup

and all I want is an answer,

or at least the right question,

’cause I know I’m responsible

for making something–

more than this house

all alone,

wondering what time

to expect Love

to come

knocking on my door.

 

November 24, 2015