Metro People I

A woman
A warm croissant
Mushed
Like a child tried to make her
Into a ball
For catching
And dropped her on the floor in the metro
Ahh man!
Don’t touch that honey it’s dirty.

Her hands reaching
Stretching like twigs jutting from
Warm bread
Like a sapling too small
To feel the sun
Always ensnared in shadow.

Her fingers scrabbled that day
For the coffee cup
One man’s trash one woman’s goldmine
Catching coins that slip
And roll down escalators, under turnstiles
Hop down dirty stairs
Like mice
Skirting the puddle of piss
And caught in a coffee cup mouse trap
Deposited directly onto her tongue.
Yum!

She rests her forehead on the ground
And sighs with relief
At the icy wind
Chewing through her skull
Cries out.
The world’s most vocal slot machine.

I bet she’s a refugee
I bet she’s not even homeless
I bet she makes food
Just like my Mom does.

She rocks her forehead back and forth
Back and forth
I love you forever
Until her forehead pools
And her neck sinks away
Torso—gush
Behind—splish
Arms and
legs—splash

An empty coffee cup
Floats
Through the metro

 

 

Artwork “Metro People” by Mark Rothko

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