They never spoke, but every time she walked into the train
He reflexively slid to the left and made room for her.
And they would travel together sitting one hand width apart.
He drummed his perfectly crooked fingers on his left thigh,
like a horse that galloped towards an unknown destination.
She clasped and unclasped her hands, and
chewed on the dry skin of her bottom lip.

She always switched off her phone before getting on the train.
She assumed he did too because no one ever disturbed their unsaid conversations.
The old man singing I Wanna Hold Your Hand provided the sound track to their journey.
Yet the most endearing sound was that of him sliding his right foot from side to side.
The soft scraping sound soothed her more than any song ever had.

The train ride lasted twenty-five minutes every night,
during which, in her mind they got married,
went to Vienna for their honeymoon,
and had three children: twin boys and a girl,
who grew up to be the perfect balance between the two of them.

His stop came before hers and
She wondered if one day he would miss his stop and
Ride with her to hers.
He knew her beginning and she knew his end.
She may never know any more
But that didn’t matter because for twenty five minutes a day,
all she needed was the soft scraping sound from his right foot sliding from side to side.

They bribed me with promises of Audis and poverty reduction.
A six-figure salary, insurance, and free weekends.

They lured me with Prada bags, Chanel Shades and scarves by Hermes.
Vacations in Nice, transits in Paris, and business trips to Beijing.

They said I could meet the Dalai Lama, Bill Gates and the Queen of England,
have wine with Sarkozy, break bread with Al Gore, and kiss Prince William.

They dangled real men, real love and post-marital affairs in front of me
and gave me dreams of seven husbands and no divorces.

They convinced me to grow up and walk across the stage,
and their promises made me smile as I crossed over to the other side.

Today, I lay in my hammock wishing they’d promised me a job as well.

the stillness is falling
stretching
window to window
beneath the frog leaps
innocence
at the end of the wick

children used to play here

choked down
and full of lonely
sent by cave paintings
and fallen priests
bleeding
perhaps breathing

my princess used to pretend

baptized in black oil
a haunting
a hidden roar
between our skin
handwritten
in the raw mixture

now, we listen for the howl

My old man used to take me to the track
Showed me how to key the top horse
Sprinkle in some long shots, he’d say
Oh, and son, it takes money to make money

He’d smoke his stoag’, pound his beers
Imploring me with his simple wisdom
Life is way too short not to...
Not to what dad? Just not to

He never played the favorites
Even money is like kissin’ your sister
And win bets?
Well those are for *******

My formula was simple
Name + color + number
Times the square root of lifetime wins
Divided by the odds, plus two

We studied the programs in silence
A father and son crack team
And usually not on purpose
We’d make the same ******* face

I was eleven when I hit my first big one
Trifecta box, because I wasn’t a *****
Paid almost two large
Never made dad more proud

Steak and lobster on my son!
We went to Ruth’s to celebrate
I tipped the waiter a hundred
And fell asleep on the drive home

It’s been over a decade since
And about a dozen girls
Always done after they go down twenty
Always win, place, and show

back in the day
when our heads were rocks
and our hearts were origami
we shot arrows through moleskins
and used wanderlust
as our compass
heatwaves
to sweat out
sadness and fuss
chest echoes
to drown out doubt
and reinforce it

today,
my boy downloaded manhood
through his contact lenses

I want you to see the hole in my shirt
where your heart went through like a Colt 45,
and opened a dream at the back of the neck.

Here,
let me unbutton it for you.

Bleach white
Bone dry
the desert of my heart.
the rains have gone
and come no more
a dry spell's come to stay.
the sun bears down his hateful rays
chipping up my heart and
scorching everything in sight
love don't prosper here no more.

a river's come
black as tar,
more viscous and all consuming,
has etched a ribbon through my heart.
by its banks the soil is dark
and the fruits of love are blooming.
close enough for me to touch
yet too far to partake,
this river through my heart