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F Train

F Train

Blown firelight into the
shard ornamented faces of a few:
Thrown in blight is our dead sex.
Cloud eyes float in ejaculant spew.

The old man visage; lips a crusted
wound of scraping idiot utterings,
mutterings and memoried mementos undusted.
The scented grime of unwashed decades-

My reflection in the glass, waiting for Second Avenue
is dim and unformed as I decipher his torn sibilants.
A blowtorch in my head hollows out a freefall trance.
I disembark. A moldy procession to exit-

Freezing rain: the foretold frozen shards.
Unshielded is my bony face; undaunted
is my cocky, cocksure, young tough gait.
The safety of a blue eyed embrace:
Blue and hidden-her judgement, my fate.
In her eyes my eyes daunted.
F Train

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4/10/2021 10:07:52 AM #