Obits

Obit

I bet everything old will be new again. Obit, a commute.
Everything
hot will get cold again. Rush hour will summon those who can

take it, clothed in mostly black & grey. I will risk telling
everyone something
with my posture. This is not a daily funeral

it’s just what it looks like. I bet the rush
will slow down again
& one winter morning I will find myself dying

wrapped in too many layers of wool. A person wearing
pink lipstick
will close their eyes & the crowd will feel gentle.

My psyche is welded into the wrong shape.
Unsturdy. Unlike
the pole I rest my hand on, my head on my hand.

So what, I like to look at my reflection. I bet every distraction
is a main event.
Someone with grey hair & forest green corduroy pants

will wave off someone asking for change.
That is an event.
I bet every hand has performed that action. I bet they read

the obits, like I scroll through facebook & I bet
I’m taking a risk
when I don’t know the dead.




Obit

A limit        Cruddy yellow lines on either side     A gap
        You won’t trespass      Sway your edges        Here
On this platform

Daily         You want nothing more than to
        Change       Your Mind

Let yourself be swayed      One way or the other
          Stand on the cautious yellow
                    Stare down the tunnel & shrug

Who would do this?     Your morbid thought like a turnstile
          Pass through the quotidian thing
          This is not news

No Way To speak it
To delineate or answer

What else could crush the wind out of you?
           Too much is       Hard To Talk About

So let the train enter the station    Let it whirl
        up your scarf with such swiftness

You press your palm against       it against your chest