In progress

By day's end I'm foxed and bent.
Dismount from the bland dais,
shut down market stall, the four-corners
where I spend the dimes of smiles.

Close me up, fold my shades
feed me silent selfishness
until the caw of 6am
when I must do it all, again.

The Insomnabulator

Left sleep on the 3:12, window seat,
cheek against the square, cold frame.
Murmuring riders - the too hot, the too cold
the knitters, the readers,
the lonely lustful prayers
unwound from dreams;
The one who strikes the door with his fist
and begs to be turned back.
Some press the pinhole light above
stare straight ahead, lint and stains
counted, recounted.
There are pacers in the aisle, stumbling
into anxious talkers, and the late-night foragers
faces refrigerator-white.
We rumble and shudder forward,
and the morning revolves
into our varied, intrepid journeys.

The rare remembered dream

Half-submerged steel city in the shadow of a broken bridge, its clockwork parts askew.
I am leading an expedition through rusty water that stains our shins and ankles. Reaching the entrance, we crawl, foot-to-head, through the sandbagged tunnels.
If you want light you must touch the walls just so.
We come out into a maze of thin streets, rimed with old graffiti. No sky. Just ceiling A barefoot figure turns a corner, then darts into a hidden door.
"You never knew people lived here, did you?"

Wake.

commute

 I smell the remaining perfume in the crook of my arm as I fight with the errant blinkers and the roaming Corolla in front of me; double-take at strip mall signs, brush ash from my business casual.