Ah! What a dreary thing it is to sit on the train while everyone else
Stands and towers above you. Crotchlevel, all I can think about are those
Work pants with their dry grays and navys and how perpetual this repetition is.
Laying my head on the shoulder of some jeanhead halfdead Edward Lopez,
The nylon legs look like cities with their belt roofs and button down skies!
Oh how I don’t want to work a full time job then die! I thought, biting the zipper
Of his jacket and holding back tears.
The rows of pants continued to glisten with authority its dronethread,
Everybody began to look like everybody and I was a tiger with a shoulder
All crossing their streets and counting their bills
Refusing to die above all else and hopelessly alone.
I closed my eyes and bent the zipper with a numb sidetooth,
Drylipped, I burned the images of men with their slicked hair and work pants
And grew claws on my elbows because I felt like it and they couldn’t own me.
A second after I opened my eyes to the empty car and it’s sunray figure,
A cheerless man in the corner, wild and comforted.
Ed, Ed wake up. We made it to the Rockaways.