Are you getting off or staying on?
He said without looking
His eyes to the ground
She didn’t respond
and he wasn’t looking for a response.
I looked him straight in the top of his head and said
I think that’s what she’s trying to figure out.

It sounded like the train had shut off its engine.
People paused their iPods to hear what was going on.
I wasn’t trying to be rude
and I don’t believe I was
but the people stared like I just called the pope a ******.

I’m sorry I feel no filial piety for a ******* bigot.
It must **** being old.
Bent over, begging for help
while insisting that you don’t need any.

A woman offered him a seat.

I see a collard shirt,
but I feel sweat stains.

I push my glasses up on my nose
when they fall to the tip,
and take my glasses off
when it rains.

It pains me
when I see another
human being just the same.
One who spits their toothpaste,
and watches it spin
down the drain.

One who
puts too much thought
into texts
they never send,
and ones who talk
all night long
with no one on the other end.

A friend told me
that I look like
a man who
rarely speaks,
and I told him
Id rather not,
and broke
my silent streak.

I feel like the cardboard sleeve
wrapped around a cold cup of coffee
Brown stained light brown
Slipping off but staying there
when the cup is placed on the table

I feel like the lid
stained with lips
Buttons pressed by boredom
White impressions on white plastic
telling you to recycle

when you’re with that girl
or any girl really
and she’s sitting on top of you
or kneeling just below
and she’s in the middle of some routine
some ritual
and you wonder if she’s trying something new
or if this has proven successful in the past
the result of numerous carefully considered scientific studies
she breaks
bends
and lies still
breathless
as if she’s forgotten her lines

The silence after
a noise
that you didn't know was a noise
stops

I wish all apologies were easy.
Like when you're standing outside of the
doctors office
and your appointment is scheduled for 3
and the sign on the floor says:
       WILL RETURN AT
and points to 6:30,
only because the hands on the clock were messed up when it fell,
and you hope it said 3 when it once hung on the door.

Then around 3:02
a secretary comes rushing and fumbles with her keys
in the door, and says
    "Sorry, traffic."
And everything is alright.
There is no argument.
No one questions the traffic.
You may be agitated, but you file
into the waiting room with the other
patients,
who were on time,
and you write your name on the list,
and you take a seat.

There are some nights
when I love the taste of water,
but I reach for whiskey instead.
I'll lay somewhat less awake in bed
until the morning when I know
I'll swallow enough in the shower.

It's nothing insurmountable,
like the cleanliness of an infant being baptized.
The congregation stares straight-mouthed
until the next baby is washed
and it stares blankly into the crowd
and the parents are proud.

Standing
arms folded on the platform.

My tongue tastes like a long night
and my legs
stand on their own
and my lungs
feel like an oven.

I hold my tongue like my bladder
and the man with the cup
stands and shakes
and sings
on
the subway.

A crowded platform
means the train is coming.

The words felt uncomfortable in my throat
like the pen I was chewing on
before the airbag went off.