Subway Syndicate

On a Sunday afternoon riding the subway
many things surprise me.
Ruffled heavy dresses,
Sweaters and Suits,
Scowling faces,
Unshaved legs.
Laziness is Sunday's motto.

An asian woman stares with heavily lined eyes
into a portable map.
Her mouth pursed in a concentrated ball
no longer seems pensive.
She purses her mouth much like a fish would,
when rising to the surface for air.

I keep staring as if my own will could
help her mouth relax.

Possible embaressment causes her to pull the map closer,
concealing her face.
Her lips relax.
They frown.

A woman in a white dress made
of cotton,
Silk,
and lace
chooses not to sit in any of the available seats.
Her body reads, 'I don't often take public transportation.'

Exiting at 23rd I notice she's wearing headphones.
Can't help but wonder
what she's listening to.

I exit the train at 14th street and pose
a few options.

How Strange, Innocence

Can we really be friends?

Part of this makes me sad.

The illogically natural feel to a friendship
that once included physical intimacy.

Sex becomes so trivial, and thoughts
of extinguishing the flame are no longer thoughts.

The matches no longer serve to ignite
but to prolong stifled chemistry
and what you once thought was
so unique, sustained by passion,
has died with the ease of habit.

Such a shame.