Written for Mark’s website challenge, working through my delusions of poetry:
A criss-cross reality
Ordered and neat
The wall, like a mausoleum and
those blue, fucking, chairs just sitting there waiting
Doctors and trains and birthdays and cancers.
When you cut out all the waiting the highlights reel is thin.
The clack clack of the train tracks. The neon light spitting spitefully at the tiled walls. The ghosts of old commuters trailing briefcases behind them like sins.
You wonder about that wall, about the bodies within, about the smooth edges and the sterilized humanity and you guess it’s true: death is cleaner than life.