Dismantled from the
Loveless and failing the trials of men,
I left to go home.
At Six AM, to the Train Station,
Lurking through lowlands of
Plastic mops and glass and glaring
After kicking me out,
My old flame nestled high in a wooden frame—
With a pumpkin moon.
My companions: A sprained ankle
A sausage, egg & cheese with a medium coffee,
And a skyline crescendo of blue patchwork and fluorescent pigeons.
But by Three AM, the trains stopped
The conductors all went home
To those Brownstones in
Brooklyn—Can’t blame them,
There’s a mattress involved.
I laid down
On the station’s knotted bench,
Nestled in a fold of stubble and flannel.
My stringencies pulsed
And lips fermented to raisins—
Hearing voices juggle
Tides and teasing,
A drone from the doorway.
Once a French girl told me,
“Any person I love, I’m gonna call home.”
Apollo must be perched above her now,
While I am here
Curled on a bench,
Eaten from the inside by African dreams.