he crumpled
himself in to the
moist plastic
seat
grasping a
book with
antiqued pages
and a dirt
smothered pink
cover
I
wondered if
he was a
blooming artist
or a collector
of
things to look
old
I wondered
if he
knew about
truth and
beauty or if he
skirted it I
wondered if it was
important
enough
to
wonder.

If you never touch me again
With pearly white knuckles
Ground soundly and firmly against
A fake brand of designer cream
And if sunlight never softens
Once tan and streaming skin
With clouds forever shining against pavement
And if air forgets
never finds a path of sweet release
To reach my lungs
Then I will stop in this moment
In a haze of chatter
movement color in the background
Sitting in a beige square
Surrounded by ground mahogany and
Paper-cut smiles
Discussing death and the nature of clocks
Buzzing by and ants trouping in the salty
Dirt and I will know
That the small insignificant crystals
Of snow floating by the
Window mean more than this. And yet
Not enough.

i saw a
man
on the train
with deep
eyes
that stared into
mine
without a
smile
or any disconcernable
amount of
emotion
just stared
lost
i looked towards a
more
interesting sight
green with
a
hint of
sunshine and when
i
looked back
he
was gone
and other eyes
were
looking back at
me
and I realized
i
missed
the emptiness
of the
blank communication.