PRE-MILLENNIAL 2-TRAIN (12/12/99)

                Repeat palindrome

                keeping itself at a

                comfortable distance

                Biding my time, picking my

                spots and a loosened grip

                on my social circle, closing

                in and expanding again.

                The cold has done nothing

                but thicken my throat so far,

                making me wake up to unclog

                my nose/ears/throat as well

                as pee off my morning

                wood.

                But winter isn’t even here yet

                So I am by no means

                getting worried about it,

                though a minor early December

                cold can sometimes effect like

                a preseason injury.

Everyone around me is ready,

                or so it seems.

                High pitched voices

                talking about a good sauce

                recipe, Nervous tourists

                with Bloomingdale’s and Dean and

                Deluca bags and sleepy shoppers

                sharing the free

                weeklies.

Everyone around me is ready,

                or so they say.

                And here I am, on my way to a union meeting.

                Sunday rush up the #2 line

                taking things so seriously, my favorite figure a stoic

                blond in a newly stiff

                leather coat, not even remotely

                trying to catch my eye.

                I’m keeping the voice

                company, drawing self-portraits

                in the name of introspection

                and wonder who else here is

                newly single (the morose yuppie

                in yellow khakis) or who else

                is putting a little extra

                spice in their smiles, a bite

                to match the wind chill.

                I’m on top of it, I guess,

                even if all I can say is that

                I’ve got at least food and cigarettes till payday, And I’m

                still writing and not holding anybody up.

                Curious eyes under butterfly clips,

                the poignant relief of

                having just scratched your foot.

                Extra layers of socks and

                matching scarves and the

                piles of plastic bags accumulated

                and all of the lighters unaccounted for

                and all of the odd daylight

                on Sunday.

                They’re all scenes from the X-mas season,

                to be sure,

                and with the millennium spread

                out across the future like a looming

                store front

or a transit workers’ strike,

                the city shows solidarity on

                one thing: Let’s not get trapped

                here, alone.

            For if we can all smile at

                the redheads across from us

                and celebrate at a lookback,

                there’s no way we won’t be able to

                look at the Brooklyn Bridge and

                say: It’s not you, man, it’s me;

                Society has become so that

                it is inconvenient that I walk over you every day

                but I love you all the same.

                And even if every woman comes

                with their boyfriend

                and leaves with someone else,

                at least there’s an open bar

                and wide-eyed tourists for

                entertainment.

                We’re all taking it pretty seriously

                I think and I think that’s a good thing

                in the end.

                And thank god for British

                accents on tall women with style and thank god

                for people who smile.         

                Breathless, breathless,

                gaping humanity

                smirking at the full

                moon and it smirks

                back at my forty bottle

                pointed from the roof

                at my own back thanks to

                the circular universe.