Guessing this could only be
one of those
suffocating,
stainless
subway car confessions—
stuck standing
up in there, feeding yourself
one or two more
fingers for dinner,
and desperate
for any old
surface
to look at
that isn't reflective,
eventually leering
at some mechanical
reproductions of a girl—
you feel
your botched head dim and
do a little swirl.
A little
sickening,
the dip feels
familiar, though;
just like your trying,
for decades
now, to somehow
grab a firm hold of
just
one single
trim, fit,
deliriously-
successful second
between—
the sham thoughts
you're
constantly having—
and your
rhapsodic, never-
ending
belief in them.
