poetry plucks at the harp strings of life
and of the bass
poetry pulls at the puppet strings of life
and the stage curtains
---
today on the metro
slouched back
knees out like a table
too big for a room
i sat in a boxcar with windows
we tore through tunnels, wet cement faces
clammy, creating great life-curiosity
what relief to be
up and out in daylight, like coming up for air
the box car with windows commits
it is here that
i bumped into expectation
standing, reading the paper
of your imagination
cordurouy pants, a beret
expectation said they had just
woken up with someone
and mother would be disappointed
i said, even the train car needs
oil, wrenches, breaks,
conductors on call
to fill in, to fix to work in the shadows
even when blue skies
were to be expected
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