A signal, half-static, fading with dawn.

Sometimes I write poetry, too (Alternate talent show entry)

two nights on a train

it’s Tuesday night and I am moving
in smooth increments through downtown streets,
between students and mothers, the sad
and wild-eyed, late workers and the lost
and the slow, deep forces of the city

or it’s Saturday, and I am unfolding
a letter on the edge of your bed, thick paper
heavy in my hands, chewed finger running
word to careful dizzy word, drunk
on the unexpected liquor of your language

or it’s Thursday and I am sitting
pen in hand, counting lines, hours,
city blocks, making a list, a chart, a map,
plotting gaps and overlaps, skips and steps,
spaces for our mute hands, our blind hearts

or it’s Monday and I’m loading
the dishwasher, cups in bowls, knives
on plates. It’s Wednesday and I am kicking
snow off my shoes. It is Sunday
and I am waking up in your bed.

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