commute

and i am here and the rats,
joints functioning like pets,
no longer hold novelty,
scurrying the tracks,
inspecting the discarded.

and i turn the podcast up when the
man with that sour smell, long passed,
tells you he needs a dollar for a room.
he is different too. and he sings Otis Redding
and sings it well. his message is positive.
no one will give him money for his room.
“Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”

and a woman with Smokey intrigue,
smile unburdened, catches eyes. we
could have a life but never will.

and a man is reading Hebrew. what is
it that he is thinking? something sacred?
another’s tattoo reads in Helvetica: “these
violent delights/have violent ends”

and by Seneca, oak barrels will provide some
excitement for the reality of my personal hours.
tomorrow, the steel peaks of a mandarin skyline,
undiluted, will inspire. all again, all again.

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