the minute the man walked onto the train
with his forty in a paper bag
i noticed the
salty
sickening
smell of
trash. he’s got a petty criminal’s
sneaker drag,
he had that looking for trouble
vision lag,
and he looked me straight in the eye
so call me trouble but the body language
of that
kind of guy
makes my throat a foreign land spit travels through
in tentative swallows,
the aura of quiet anger
around that
kind of guy
makes for a swollen tongue
that’s rough as a desert is dry. with his lumpy coat and
strange emotionless
maliciousness
i know his kind of dog and
it’s one gentle pat away from viciousness
it felt just like old times,
reeked bad news in the sunday paper lines and
sliced my memory like a quick surgeon’s incision
so i averted my gaze but
kept him at the corner of my vision.
he talked about how he lived nearby,
he was on his way,
he was on time
but them guys they,
only talk to dealers and they
only tell lies. and i gently squeezed
the scabs on my knees
and tried to hold my breath or at least breathe
shallow
until his presence wasn’t so threatening
but truly, it always was, because,
it was going to be
until he stepped through the automatic sliding subway doors
and surfaced
got swept away in the city above me.
his body had to be far away
from my body
for me to feel safe.