Monday, April 16, 2012

(a filler poem)


From streetcar to streetcar in my flowered dress, I go.
On a Monday with other like-wise women, and their six,
seven bags of assorted sizes and ten, colored bracelets
At their jingling wrists; one lady holds a kitten in a paper
Bag. It mews, high-pitched, sad it is not yet a lion. One
Woman in pants-like-a-skirt, shows off her slim, angular
Waist; her long, thin legs, a clown’s ridiculous stilts upon
Which she is proudly poised. Again, I tell you, it is Monday,
Which every awe-woken body knows. All the people in their
Headphones, drowning out the quiet morning; all the silent,
Sleepy people, whose tired eyes read from translucent
Screens or from paper, bound together with string and glue,
Handled, finger-flipped, pressed close to the chest only when
Words make the heart flutter like a bird caught in a tiger’s
Bony throat. The mouth opens and it flies out, singing. The doors
Close behind me with a ding-dong, the sound clowns make
From their big, red noses, as they crowd into the tiny car,
Echoing a wistful loneliness that isn’t quite melancholy.

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