Stations and Minutes
You buy, at Trader Joe's, four frozen 'dinners.' Indian. Italian. In line the scanners beep. Bags thump and shuffle. At home, the freezer moans. You don't turn any lights on. You can see in the dark pretty well.
Pass a church, all points and presence. You walk up the steps and read the faces of the figures around the door, but don't go in. A bus rolls to a stop below you, lets off an old man, on a couple of kids.
Drop your clothes off at the laundromat. You'll come back, they'll be folded into a brick, smelling of hotels. You used to stay, let your three quarters ride the stubborn lever, watch your clothes and hers in the dryer together spin. You'd write, or watch youtube videos, one headphone each.
Underground, throwing matchbooks onto the tracks, you look not at but past or across people. Water drips from the ceiling, rat- hued, and in four minutes, says the sign, the rails will shimmer, the far hole fill with roar and light.
Years put on lines not all at once. The plates are slowly crashing into each other.
submitted at 1:23am
30 March 2011
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