cigar box filled with passionate
letters sealed in stamped envelopes
never to be read by the one
they were intended for.
It’s alone
in a subway tunnel on
an early Saturday morning. A translucent image
appears in a tinted window of a broken
down train while others
continue on to their destinations.
Disconnect
Consecutive days, a constant spitting
in the sky that doesn’t allow me to open my eyes
completely. I have viewed the splendidness and sliminess
of the city through puddles littered
with natural and human litter.
Routine continues, "have to be”
at places that cause knots in my stomach like
old sneaker laces. Stuck, like spots on the sidewalk. Stuck
to the bills and the poor souls who mail them out. I write
letters to my neighborhood friend
in the Billerica House of Corrections and wonder
as I lick the envelope
who is more free?
Wasted potential, and the police officer
who told me A Bronx Tale
is his favorite movie of all time. When does,
"what we want to be when we grow up,”
change to, "what we must do to be an adult.” There was nothing better
than playground days and no scheduled time to be home.
Crooked picture frame, hanging
underneath a dead clock and insects that contort
inside fluorescent light fixtures. A blinking light on my office phone
and the messages I haven't heard because I already know their content.
Disconnect…
Meet Me in Somerville
Meet me in Somerville
and drown matches in overpriced coffee.
Out of reach stars sit in the sky,
like decimals in my mind
trying to rearrange numbers
so I continue to buy
things that will satisfy me
for no longer than my favorite TV show.
Meet me in Somerville
where residents live on top of one another
just to afford rent. Do you know
about the underground economy
where greedy landlords
stuff the undocumented into triple-decker tents?
Meet me in Somerville
next to the crooked EBT sign
hanging on by yellowed tape
that changed texture
like the skin of a relapsing…
Meet me in Somerville
by the empty space
occupied by the previous generation
that grew up to be cultural myths and urban legends
layered inside the foundations of gentrification.
Broken promises jotted down on alleyway walls
by the city’s most unreliable narrator.
Antique Man
I took a photo of an old man in Maine
who sat down gingerly in a wooden chair
after removing multiple avocado green
tarps off his merchandise. It was about 9:15 A.M.
and the dampness from the moist dirt ground
crawled inside my socks, up my legs,
and drilled holes into my flesh. Water from
an overnight rain found its way inside soup bowls,
cologne bottles, and cups that I might have seen
before in my grandmother’s cellar.
His thick glasses weighed on his cheekbones
like the stacks of hammers, wrenches, and saws
that put a slight bend in the center of his tool’s table.
This man’s life and interests
were played out: Star Trek comics,
Coca-Cola bottles, Billie Holiday records,
and stuff that didn’t quite add up
like the floral china set that maybe
belonged to the love of his life.
I couldn’t have been more wrong
about my definition of nowhere. What is nowhere?
Radiant foliage? Winding roads? Christmas tree farms?
What is somewhere? Crowded subways? Addiction? The Corner?
I was burrowed in the middle of a man’s life
and realized how time has a humorous way of determining
what is and what is not valuable to someone anymore.
Antique
