Metro 487

I lean silently to the alcove

                    And listen

Two strangers speak

                    She regales

The tortures of canceled routes

The ignorance of drivers

The self-service of car owners

The follies of the Metro

                    But I watch him

He agrees, nods, tells his story

                    Pleasantly. Efficiently.

He notes they have another ten minutes

                    They continue to talk

Boarding, I watch them go

He sits several rows back

                    On the opposite side

Shorter, less dressed or shaven, prettier than

                    I realize

I am that man.

Zen upon Sunrise

There will be a gold bloom

Fast and quiet it blossoms

Rays of petals

Tickling the green palms

Kissing the glass faces of sky scrapers

Opening up it is as in dreams

The gate to Nirvana

At four a.m. we have a little ways

                    Or at least a short eternity

Before full bloom

Traveling South

The world walks here
Sitting in what they call beating contemporary -
          I'm bored of it already
A year is just yesterday -
          they have not forgotten
And the New Century has still only just begun

The valley yawns
Cold slumber undone -
          the land has been left for dead
And the trees tell us the future -
          they speak of God
Curled and twisted they fall upon themselves without their guise or blanket

The Starbox on the left holds their hipsters
Faux hawks and retro military coats -
         Varsity jackets and knitting yarn
The radio news proves the youth is not lost -
         I cry unknown and sleep through what they call ruckus
I heard this song six months ago, claiming
     the Foreign Streets as my home.