a clarified voice rises above the chatter
in the blue sky ceiling at the subway stairs top
"you donít love me? how dare you say thatÖ"
the man stamps into the cellphone which is a small eternal box.
thereíll always be someone who has your number he thinks
to himself about her
quickly and is enraged.
he walks down the stairs to the subway,
hoping his eyes and everyoneís eyes donít adjust
and the world remains dimmer,
so that his wound
is an indeterminable blur with laughter, and boredom
he stands at the mouth of the subway tunnel
forever gaping it is impatient, menacing and inevitable
every now and then signs rumble up
of its inner life
the way she used to exaggerate her stoicism before laughing.
the way he would nervously place one hand above her hip
a glimmer of light howling down a rail tunnel.
every portal is a hesitant favor we take for granted.
now he will stand as he is
in front of the map of subway routes
and think where do all these other lines go to?
the train only goes to my house,
to her house.
just one line down, a detour. fuck. but very little has changed.
the beggar playing the guitar near the stairs
has not paused, does not know.
at the manís house his furniture will sit like scolded children
and there will still be pictures
of him and her
forever smiling. and he can see
no portents in them.
you didnít say the right words he wants to scream at her!
because you didnít say the right words, I didnít say the right words.
how could so little have changed.
a slight variation, the 10:00 train
to daly city is five minutes late,
but it isnít significant.
only one world has been taken away,
who knows perhaps
as many other stops on some other line,
but he was blind to them, because he was going where she was.
all of the people rush past him
with their reasons
only every capability has been taken away, who knows.
is what was there before what is there now, more real less real?
heís still holding the cellphone up
to his ear
and heís staring, ďhow dare you say you donít love meĒ
a softly spoken outrage at being returned to all of this
the phone is not dramatically flung but placed
quietly into his pocket, a portal sealed
and he thinks, a capability
re-approached, - ďhow dare you say you donít love meĒ
and he means how dare you remind me of the breadth
and deafening rumble of existence
outside each and every thick-veined color-coded pocket of resistance.
how dare you, how dare you
oh the tunnel vision of intimacy -
and then at the last possible moment
you're hit and crushed
by the familiar now strange
that was supposed to take you home.
what's it to you?