In the fading radio signals,
I can hear the apologies
From men in suits
Waiting for the subway.
Spare Key
We are running on schedule
Like the 6:33 peak train
That glides along the river
Forcing tentative toddlers to swim.
Your skin is a million rejected constellations.
“Maybe if you were taller…” I shouted down,
“Your nose could be Orion’s slacks!”
I followed the Earth’s curve to Palestine.
I’m not sure what I expected,
But I was overdressed.
I told my grandmother, “You shouldn’t’ve lingered in the tub.”
I’ve overrun the bath before.
The downstairs lights cried gallons of soapy tears.
I haven’t taken a bath since.
In your car, you will glance to the side of the road
And I will be the kudzu vines
Suffocating your thoughts.
I slept in a tent on the ocean’s floor
And dreamt about a sandless desert.
When I woke up,
My dad had already carried me back to bed.
“The desert is a giant sugar bowl.”
I heralded,
“The ocean is dry.”
Would you forgive me if I overdrew your bath
And water splashed against our windows?
When it drained we would stand
In soggy shirtsleeves,
Pruned, but not from the sun.
Without my glasses, I am
A blind alcoholic.
With my glasses, I am
An alcoholic seer.
My dad woke me up to bring me a glass of water.
He thought I said I was thirsty.
